Page 27 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

It’s slow now—aching, thorough. Our mouths learn each other’s rhythms, our breathing syncs, and every drag of his lips over mine sends heat coiling low in my belly. His teeth scrape my lower lip, and I gasp, hips twitching before I even realise I’ve moved.

His hand trails down to my jaw, tilting my face just enough to change the angle. The next slide of his tongue against mine is softer and lingers, and I swear I feel it down to my fucking toes.

When we finally pull apart, we don’t go far. Our foreheads rest together, breath mingling. My pulse is thunderous in my ears. His eyes search mine like he’s looking for the edge of a cliff he already knows he’ll jump off.

And me?

I’ve already jumped.

Camden tastes like mint and morning heat, and it takes everything in me not to drag him back to bed. He leans into the kiss—one of many—his mouth lingering just long enough for it to toe the line between affectionate and filthy.

“Brent,” he warns, voice low and already breathless, “you’re gonna make me late.”

I grin and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then you should’ve left five minutes ago, Captain.”

He rolls his eyes but kisses me again anyway. One hand slides around my waist like he’s trying to memorise the shape of me, and then he pulls back with a soft, reluctant groan.

He looks better today. Less tight around the eyes. There’s colour in his cheeks again, and the heaviness he carried yesterday seems to have eased, if only slightly. It’s a look that makes my chest squeeze, because I know what it took to get him here—and I know how fragile it still is.

“Meeting should be short,” he says, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Few admin things and some reflection.”

“Text me after?” I ask, already knowing he will.

He nods, then jogs down the steps. I watch him go, still a little dazed that this—whatever it is—is actually happening.

It’s only when I go back inside that I spot it: his gameplay folder, sitting neatly on the side table near the door.

Shit.

I grab my phone and shoot him a message.

Me: You forgot your stuff. Folder on the table.

Me: Stay where you are. I’m bringing it down. Also, you owe me another kiss.

I grab the folder and rush down, my boots thudding on the stairs. When I round the corner of the building, Camden’s already by his car, grinning at me through the window.

I jog up to the driver’s side and lean down to hand him the folder through the open window. “Your brain still in bed or just distracted by my stellar goodbye technique?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.

I lean in, kiss him again—short and sweet this time—and then step back with a wink. “Go. Be important. We’ll talk later.”

He nods, eyes lingering for a second longer than necessary, then pulls away down the street.

I’m back at the studio an hour later, prepping for a full day. Carrie’s already here, elbow-deep organising stock, the usual playlist humming in the background. I’m half focused on prepping my station when the bell above the door rings.

I glance up, expecting my midday appointment—but it’s a man I don’t recognise. Older, well-dressed, clean-cut, and with no visible tattoos.

“Hey there,” I say, polite but guarded. “Can I help you?”

He smiles and offers his hand. “You the owner?”

“I run the place,” I say, shaking it cautiously. “Brent.”

He nods slowly, gaze flicking across the shop walls. “Lovely work. Thought I’d come in, see what kind of stuff you do. You the artist?”

“One of them. You looking for something?”

He shrugs, lingering by the reception desk. “Just curious, I guess. Always been interested in tattooing. Never quite got the nerve.”

I nod, still not entirely at ease. “Well, I’m happy to show you some portfolios if you’re thinking about it.”

We chat for a moment—surface-level stuff. Then he asks, casual as anything, “Ever inked anyone famous?”

Alarm bells clang in my skull. “Can’t talk about clients,” I say evenly. “Privacy’s part of the deal.”

He nods like he gets it, then leans in slightly. “Not even Camden Crawford?”

My spine goes ramrod straight. “What?” I ask, too flatly.

“I mean,” he continues, smile still easy, “are you his artist? Or his boyfriend? Or both?” He laughs lightly. “Do you always sleep with clients or just the famous ones?”

I blink. “You need to leave.”

He raises a brow, surprised by the sharpness in my voice. “I’m just asking?—”

“Get out,” I snap. “Now.”

Carrie pokes her head out from the back. “Everything okay?”

“No,” I say. “This guy needs to go.”

She takes one look at the man and steps forwards, voice hard. “You heard him. Out. We don’t tolerate harassment here.”

One of our regulars—a mountain of a guy with sleeves from wrist to neck—steps into the reception area just in time to loom effectively. The guy finally gets the message and slinks out, muttering something under his breath.

As the door shuts behind him, I sag against the counter, heart pounding.

Carrie watches me, eyebrows drawn. “That… was definitely a journalist, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I rasp. “Or some shit-stirring fan trying to sell a story.”

She places a hand on my shoulder. “Camden okay with being public?”

“No,” I murmur, throat tight. “He’s not. And I think I just screwed everything up.”

The studio feels too quiet after that.

Even with Carrie murmuring to a client who came in thirty minutes ago at her station and the hum of machines being cleaned, there’s something off-kilter about the air.

I try to shake it. Try to pretend that bastard hadn’t shown up, hadn’t looked me in the eye and asked if I usually fuck my clients.

As if Camden is some conquest, some goddamn feather in my cap.

I scrub a hand down my face and unlock my phone again.

Still nothing from Cam.

I tried to call him five minutes ago. It rang out. That could mean a dozen things—he’s in his meeting, he’s in the locker room, he’s ignoring calls. None of them sit right. Not after that stunt.

I type a message fast.

Me: Hey. Tried to call. Please call me when you can.

I hesitate, then keep typing.

Me: Just a heads-up, someone came by the shop asking questions. About you. About us. I told him to fuck off, but I think he might be press. He dropped your name.

I don’t hit Send right away. I read it through twice. My thumb hovers. Then I send it.

Fuck.

There’s a sting behind my eyes I’m not proud of. A mix of fury and shame and fear, all tangled into a pit that’s taken up residence in my chest. I don’t do this. I don’t let people in easily, not in ways that matter. And now someone’s trying to weaponise it.

I glance towards the hallway where my next client is due in ten minutes.

Carrie steps out from her station and gives me a look that says she knows I’m not okay. I offer a faint smile—reassuring, or maybe just resigned—and return to the reception desk. I’ve got a few sketches I can run through, some linework options I need to prep.

My hands move, but my head’s not in it.

So I do the only thing I can: I flick off silent mode and set my phone faceup beside my sketchpad. Against every instinct, against every professional bone in my body, I keep it there. Open. Ready.

Because if Camden calls, I’ll drop everything. Because he needs to know before someone else twists this into something it’s not. Because he deserves to hear it from me. Because?—

Because I fucking care.

And I don’t know if that makes this better or worse. But I do know I’m not backing down. Not from this.

Not from him.