Page 26 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent

I almost didn’t come.

After watching the match—hell, after watching him —I nearly turned around three times before even making it to the car.

Camden didn’t look like he needed company when the final whistle blew.

He looked like a man carrying too much weight and bracing for more.

But I knew if I’d asked outright whether he wanted to see me tonight, he’d have said no.

The man doesn’t ask for help, not even when he’s on fire.

So I didn’t ask.

Now I’m following him up the stairs to his flat, the echo of his keys in the lock louder than either of us.

He’s quiet, his shoulders drawn tight and his gaze flicking once behind us before we step inside.

I catch it—the assessing glance, the flicker of nerves, the subtle check for cameras or wandering eyes.

It makes sense. He’s the captain of a top-tier team under a microscope. The last thing he needs is some press snapping photos of him with a bloke in tow, sensationalising his personal life when it’s the game that should be centre stage.

And I’m okay with that. Really. Because what he needs tonight is some damn TLC.

As soon as we’re inside, I set about running him a bath.

He shoots me a look, part surprised, part bemused.

He’s not used to being looked after. I can see it in the way he lingers near the doorway, not quite sure what to do with himself.

Still, when I hand him a beer and gesture for him to sit, he obeys—barely masking a tired smile. I take it as a win.

“I was gonna throw the ref through a wall,” I say lightly, crouching to fiddle with the water temperature.

Cam snorts softly behind me. “Get in line.”

The bath fills slowly, steam curling into the small space.

I sit nearby, giving him room without making him feel alone.

We talk about the game—something I hadn’t expected him to want to do.

But I think he needs to vent. Needs someone who won’t tell him to move on or shake it off. Someone who’ll just… listen.

When he gets to the part about the post-match press conference, though, his words falter.

“They asked about distractions,” he says finally, voice low.

My stomach tightens. “Distractions?”

He nods, not quite meeting my eye.

I sit back against the wall and take a slow breath. “You mean me?”

Cam’s silence says enough.

Fuck.

I should tell him I’ll back off. That I get it.

That rugby’s his life, and I’d never want to jeopardise it.

But I don’t say any of that. Because while I do get it…

also, fuck that. I like him. I want him.

Not just in my bed but in my life. And I’m not going to let a few shitty headlines or his own internal doubts scare me off.

Still. Now isn’t the time to say any of that either.

He needs calm, comfort, something easy. So I say, “You want a top-up on that beer, Captain?”

And his shoulders finally relax, just a little. Enough to remind me that while the night didn’t start the way I wanted, I’m exactly where I need to be.

I test the water with my hand and nod. Perfect—steamy but not scalding. I glance back over my shoulder to where Camden leans against the doorframe, still cradling the beer I handed him, eyes distant.

“You are good with baths, right?” I ask, maybe a little late.

His answer is a half-assed grunt. “I’ve had worse ideas.”

That’s a yes for him. I take it.

When he steps fully into the bathroom, I grab one of the fluffier towels from the linen cupboard—he’s not one to treat himself, but I am—and place it near the radiator to warm.

I light one of the subtle candles I spotted on his shelf.

Not floral, not sweet. Just a clean, cedarwood thing that smells like calm.

By the time I join him, he’s already sinking into the water with a long-drawn-out sigh that makes something twist in my chest. He needs this. Not just the bath but the care. The pause. A soft moment in the middle of a very loud week.

“I feel like a bloody pensioner,” he mutters.

“You’re a pensioner who took four tackles and played all eighty minutes,” I reply, grabbing the washcloth and soaking it. “You’ve earned this.”

“Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, tattooing someone or sketching a phoenix mid-flight across someone’s ribcage?”

I hum. “Probably. But I’d rather be here.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flicker—just briefly—and something unspoken passes between us.

I kneel at the side of the bath, drag the wet cloth gently over his shoulder, then down one thick arm, watching the tension slowly ease from his posture. He doesn’t stop me when I move to the other, just watches. Quiet. Maybe even a little curious.

The bruises are a patchwork of purples and yellows, blooming on his ribs and hip. A particularly gnarly one above his knee makes me wince. “Fuck,” I murmur. “How’re you walking?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Occupational hazard.”

“Still,” I say, running the cloth down his sternum now. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve someone taking care of you.”

His mouth opens like he might argue, but then he closes it again. I take that as another win.

I let my fingers glide a little lower, circling lazily over the flat of his chest, then teasing gently at one nipple. It tightens under the cloth, and his abs flex beneath the surface of the water.

“Thought this was about TLC,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. His voice is quieter now, rougher and less certain.

“It is,” I say softly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.”

His gaze flickers, jaw tightening. There’s resistance—but no real desire to stop me. I keep going. Gentle circles. The other nipple now. His breathing changes, and I’m aware of every sharp inhale, every faint shift in his hips under the water.

My hand moves lower, the cloth slipping aside, and I wrap my fingers around his cock—slow and unhurried. He’s semihard already, the water lapping softly against his stomach as he lifts his head and meets my eyes.

“Brent….”

“I know,” I whisper. “You’re tired. You don’t need to do anything. Let me take care of you.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push me away. He just leans his head back against the tub and exhales hard.

I stroke him slowly. A steady rhythm. Not chasing anything. Not demanding a reaction. Just coaxing pleasure from the stress-clenched body in front of me. His cock swells in my hand, thick and heavy now, twitching slightly under the water.

Camden’s groans are low and guttural, a sound that punches heat straight to my gut. His legs shift—parting just enough—and I adjust, kneeling in closer, letting the water slosh against the sides of the bath.

I mumble to him, the words spilling out as my hand continues its slow rhythm. “You’re gorgeous like this… soft and wrecked and letting go.”

“Shut up,” he grits out, but his hips buck into my hand, and I know he doesn’t mean it.

“Let go for me, Cam,” I murmur, dipping my forehead briefly against his damp knee. “You don’t always have to hold it all in.”

He whimpers—actually whimpers—and it makes me slow down.

“Brent… please.”

I almost come just from that.

The edge flirts with us, dances around us. I back off, then bring him close again, over and over, watching him unravel bit by bit until his hand is gripping the side of the tub like he’ll snap the porcelain in two.

His eyes are dark now, fevered. His chest is heaving. And I can tell—he’s right there. But he won’t come unless I tell him to.

So I do.

“Now,” I whisper, voice gravelly. “I’ve got you.”

He comes with a shudder, hips jerking, water sloshing over the sides. I hold him through it, slow and steady, until his body slumps back, boneless and trembling.

There’s a long silence.

I brush the cloth down his stomach, cleaning him gently, even as his eyes flutter closed and his throat works around a swallow.

“I fucking hate how good that was,” he mutters eventually.

I smile. “Then we’re even.”

He opens one eye. “For what?”

“For how fucking hard you make it not to fall for you.”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t look away either. And that silence? It says enough for now.

The water has barely settled before it sloshes violently to one side, slapping the edge of the tub and cascading onto the floor.

“Cam—”

I barely get his name out before a strong, wet hand fists the front of my shirt and yanks me forwards.

My knees slam into the bathmat, and then I’m crashing into a very large, very naked man, the fabric of my tee soaking instantly as I tumble halfway over the edge.

Camden’s grin is feral, his eyes lit with something wild and determined.

“You asshole,” I gasp, breathless with laughter. The sound barely makes it past my lips before his mouth crashes into mine.

The kiss is nothing like the slow, teasing brushes we’ve shared before.

It’s not polite.

It’s not sweet.

It’s possession.

And I fucking melt.

His lips are hot and wet and demanding, slanting over mine with an urgency that makes my heart stutter.

One hand cradles the back of my head, the other braced against the side of the tub, trapping me between the slick slide of his chest and the porcelain edge.

His tongue brushes against mine, and I open for him without hesitation—eager, hungry, lost.

The kiss deepens.

Our tongues stroke, swirl, collide. There’s nothing shy about the way we come together now—just hunger and the kind of trust that creeps up without warning. My fingers find his hair, curling tight, and he groans into my mouth like it does something to him. Like it matters.

And maybe it does.

Because this—this mess of wet skin, open mouths, unspoken heat—isn’t just a kiss. It’s a surrender. A claim. It’s him saying I’m here , and me saying I feel it too.

I slide closer despite the ridiculous squeeze of two grown men trying to fit into a tub clearly built for one. My jeans dig into my knees, but I don’t give a damn. His cock presses against my hip, mine trapped painfully behind denim, but it’s the kiss I’m drowning in.