Page 29 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

I step inside, closing the door behind me, and when his hand finds mine a second later, I don’t let go. Not this time. Not when I’ve finally decided to stop running from something that feels this real.

We don’t move right away. There’s something about standing in the quiet warmth of Brent’s flat—our hands still linked, his chest brushing mine with every breath—that makes it hard to break the moment. But he gives a small smile and tugs gently, guiding me further inside like I belong.

He lets go only long enough to flip the deadbolt behind me, then trails into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Want a drink? I’ve got beer, juice, or that sparkling elderflower stuff you said tasted like posh lemonade.”

I huff out a laugh, toe off my trainers, and wander in behind him. “You mean the one I said I’d only drink if I was wearing a cashmere jumper and had a golden retriever named Winston?”

“That’s the one.” He grins, reaching into the fridge.

“Beer’s good.”

He hands me one, grabs one for himself, and nods towards the sofa. We settle there with our knees nearly touching, the air between us lighter than it was even five minutes ago. Still fragile, but no longer fraying at the edges.

We fall into that kind of silence that’s not empty—just full of things neither of us is quite ready to say aloud.

Brent turns his beer bottle in his hand, thumb skating the condensation. “So, I was gonna tell you earlier, but…” He gives a little shrug. “I looked at your States tour schedule you sent.”

My brows lift.

He doesn’t quite meet my gaze. “I’ll definitely be there,” Brent says, quietly now. “That week. The same time as you. It overlaps.”

I stare at him, warmth blooming low in my gut. “You going to come to the game for sure?”

He shrugs, casual—but I catch the flicker of something more in his eyes. “Well, if the offer’s still there and you want me to come, and if there are still tickets left.”

“Right.” I try to match his nonchalance, but my mouth twitches into something dangerously close to a smile. “No pressure, but I think I can swing tickets for you and your folks if you really think they’ll be interested.”

“Yeah?” He leans back and relaxes when I nod. “Wouldn’t want to distract you from all the important ball fumbling you’ve got lined up.”

I roll my eyes and throw a cushion at him. He dodges easily, grinning, and I shake my head, but I don’t deny the flush of warmth at the thought of him sitting in the crowd. Of him watching me play.

Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he’s already looked at the schedule. That kind of consideration… it does something to me. Not flashy, not loud, just… solid. Intentional.

“You don’t have to,” I say, quieter now. “Come to the game, I mean.”

“I know,” he replies, voice matching mine in tone. “But I want to.”

The words settle like something soft and heavy in my chest. I take a long breath, anchoring myself in the moment. Brent is here, beer in hand, every fibre of him still a little on edge from the press bullshit earlier—but still here. Still steady.

I don’t know what this thing is we’re building. We haven’t defined it and haven’t tried to. But I know how it feels, and I know I don’t want it to stop.

Brent sets his bottle on the table, turning to me with that bright gaze of his—softened now, edges gone quiet. “You eaten?”

My stomach tightens. I shake my head, though I’m not really thinking about food.

He arches a brow. “You want me to cook something? Or maybe… shower first?”

There’s nothing loaded in the question. Nothing obvious. Just that calm, smooth tone he always uses, like he’s offering me a hand instead of a trap. But the way his eyes dip—slow, warm—the curve of his mouth barely lifting? Yeah. I know where this is going.

And fuck, I want it to go there.

Still, I play it cool, the corner of my mouth tugging up. “Pretty sure I don’t stink. No training today.”

“Mm,” he hums, pushing off the couch and standing in front of me. He looks down, eyes skimming over me like I’m something he wants to unwrap slowly. “Still. Hot water. Steam. My hands on your skin.”

My breath catches.

He grins, but it’s not cocky. It’s quiet. Earnest. “Could be nice.”

The lump in my throat is stupidly large for how simple the words are. I nod, and he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. Just there—soft and warm and nothing like the urgency that usually lights me up.

This is something else, gentle and intimate.

God help me, it makes my chest ache.

I follow him to the bathroom without a word, but my pulse drums in my ears like it’s trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear. The room fills with the sound of running water. I lean against the doorframe as he adjusts the temperature.

When he turns, steam curling behind him, he holds out a hand. “Come on, Captain. Let me take care of you.”

And fuck, I let him.

I step close and his hands go to my shirt, fingers brushing over my abs as he lifts the hem and pulls it up and off. I’m big. I know I am. Broad through the chest, heavy through the thighs. Most of the time I feel like a tank—intimidating, powerful, built to hit and be hit.

But the way he looks at me makes me feel good. Not for what I can do. Not for what I am on the pitch. Just for being me.

He trails his fingers down my torso, tracing the lines of old bruises and the fresh ones from yesterday. His touch is reverent. Gentle. He undoes my belt with the kind of calm focus that makes my breath catch. Then my jeans. Then my briefs.

By the time I step under the water, my skin’s already burning for him—and he hasn’t even kissed me again yet. I turn, water pouring down my back, but before I can say anything, he’s stepping in behind me, fully naked, and sliding his arms around my waist.

And just like that, I melt. All that tension I didn’t realise I’d been holding? Gone.

His lips press to my shoulder. “Let me look after you.”

I nod, voice gone somewhere I can’t reach.

My chest cracks wide open as he takes the cloth and soap, lathers up, and begins to wash me—slow, deliberate strokes over my chest, down my ribs, across my stomach.

His hands glide over me like I’m something precious, not someone who’s spent a decade being told to toughen the fuck up.

And every time he touches me, I believe him a little more.

That I deserve this.

That I can want this.

That I can have it.

The soap-slick cloth circles my chest, then glides down my belly. My abs flex without permission. His fingers follow, taking their time, brushing lower, slower, until his knuckles graze my cock. It’s already heavy, semihard just from the way he touches me.

“You always like taking care of people?” I manage, voice hoarse.

He grins against my shoulder. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t need it.”

His hand closes around me—not tight, not rushed, just warm, firm, achingly sure. I brace a hand on the wall, legs already starting to tremble. “Fuck.”

Brent kisses down my spine, water beading across my skin.

He takes his time, like he’s got nowhere else to be.

Like he’s been waiting to do this properly.

My cock pulses in his grip. He strokes once, then again, letting the slickness build while he sinks lower, trailing kisses down the curve of my back.

When his hands part me, I jolt. “Brent?—”

“Let me,” he murmurs, already kneeling in the shallow pool of water around our feet.

The next thing I feel is the heat of his breath, the shocking softness of his tongue flicking across my rim. My thighs twitch. My hand slams flat against the tile.

“Oh fuck?—”

He groans like he fucking means it, tongue lapping, then circling with practiced ease.

Every time he presses in deeper, I swear I could cry.

The way he holds me open, the care he takes—it’s not filthy, it’s worship.

I’ve never had anyone eat me out like they were starving.

Like the sounds I make are their favourite song.

All while his other hand strokes me—slow, wet, rhythmic.

“Brent… fuck… you don’t have to?—”

“Wanna,” he growls, tongue pushing in just enough to make my knees buckle.

I can’t stay upright. I lean into the wall, letting my weight fall forwards, giving him all of me.

Because I want this.

Because I trust him.

And when he strokes me again—tightening just slightly, twisting at the head—I lose whatever scraps of composure I had left. Every nerve ending lights up, and I don’t just feel good—I feel known.

He knows exactly how to touch me. How to work me up and keep me there, toes curling, teeth gritted, desperate and dangling on the edge.

I moan, loud and rough. “Fuck—don’t stop?—”

He doesn’t.

I shudder through the tension, hips jerking, and then I’m gasping his name as I come hard, heat pulsing through me in waves.

Brent doesn’t let go until I’ve ridden it out, until I’m slumping forwards, forehead resting on the cool tile, heart hammering.

There’s silence for a beat. Then I feel his mouth press a kiss to the base of my spine.

Gentle.

Grateful.

Real.

When I turn, his eyes are still dark with want, but his touch is firm as he helps me shift, holding me like I’m something worth catching.

“Jesus,” I mutter, chest heaving.

He smiles, brushing water from my brow. “You good?”

I nod, unable to speak. Because yeah, I’m good. I’m more than good.

I’m fucking his.