Page 43 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

The bell over the door jingles as I step into Black Salt Ink, the sound oddly comforting despite the nerves buzzing just beneath my skin.

Christy looks up from the front desk, her knowing grin already in place. “You’re early,” she says, her voice pitched low with amusement. “That alias you gave me was shit, by the way.”

I smirk and step fully into the shop, the air thick with antiseptic and the low hum of something warm and familiar. “Figured it wouldn’t fool you.”

She flicks her gaze towards the back, chin lifting. “He’s in his room. Head down. Completely oblivious.”

Perfect.

I nod, give her a grateful look, and move past the waiting area, every step somehow quieter than usual—despite the pounding of my heart.

I haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks, and somehow, that feels both ridiculous and monumental.

The US tour was short by professional standards.

But in Brent-time? It’s felt like a fucking decade.

I pause at the threshold of his workroom.

The door’s open, the late-morning light slanting in through the frosted window and catching in the strands of his messy dark hair.

He’s seated at his drafting desk, sleeves pushed up, head tilted slightly as he sketches something I can’t see.

His lip ring catches the light every time he draws it between his teeth, something he does when he’s really focused.

He’s wearing a charcoal T-shirt that clings lovingly to the planes of his back, stretched just enough that I catch the outline of his shoulder blades when he moves.

God, I missed him.

There’s a tenderness in the moment, the way his brow is furrowed in concentration, the pencil in his hand moving with quick, practiced ease. It’s a side of him I’ve only recently come to know—the artist at work, utterly absorbed and stunningly unaware of how beautiful he looks when he’s thinking.

I lean against the doorframe, letting the seconds stretch.

This—being here, watching him in his element—is worth every lie I told to get here early. I haven’t even told my brother I landed this morning, let alone Brent. But the way my chest swells just standing in this doorway, the way my mouth aches from holding back a grin… it was the right call.

Finally, he senses something. Maybe the shift in light. Or just that inexplicable gut feeling that someone’s watching.

He glances up, blinking once, then twice, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Cam?” His voice is soft, rough with surprise.

I shrug one shoulder, unable to keep the grin off my face. “Thought I’d drop in. You know, get some work done. Figured I’d go with a fake name and everything. Keep you on your toes.”

Brent’s chair scrapes back as he rises, that dazed look on his face melting into something warmer. Something breathtaking. “You absolute bastard,” he says—but he’s smiling like he might kiss me into next week.

I open my arms just in time to catch him.

He collides into me, arms banding around my back, the scent of ink and soap and Brent flooding my senses. His unshaven face lightly scrapes my jaw as he buries his face against my neck, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the plane took off from Atlanta.

“Missed me?” I murmur, voice low, amused.

“Like hell,” he says against my throat, his hands splaying across my back, fingers digging in like he’s making sure I’m really here. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t stay away.” I run my fingers through the back of his hair, letting them tangle in those dark strands. “Three weeks before training starts. I plan to spend every damn second I can with you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes roving over my face like he’s committing every line to memory. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve booked the day off.”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.”

Brent’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s pretending to be annoyed, but the curve of his mouth betrays him. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

I kiss him.

There’s no fanfare. No hesitation. Just lips meeting lips with the kind of ache that comes from too much distance and not enough time.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me to him as he deepens it—tongue sliding along mine, teeth grazing my lower lip just enough to make my knees threaten to give.

“Christ,” he breathes when we part. “You taste like airport coffee.”

“Still gonna make out with me?”

“Obviously.”

We’re both grinning now, and something settles in my chest—heavy in a good way. Like a weight I’ve been carrying has finally been set down.

Brent pulls me fully into the room, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. “You serious about that tattoo session? Or was this whole thing just an excuse to ambush me?”

“Why not both?” I stretch my arms overhead and drop into the client chair. “But yeah. If you’re game. I’ve got time today.”

Brent circles me, slow and considering. “I’ve got some time in a couple of hours. I’ve an appointment due.”

I shoot him a shit-eating grin. “Make that now since I’m your next booking.” I arch my brow, totally pleased with myself.

He snorts out a laugh. “Christy set that up? You’re Brian?”

I nod, watching him like I haven’t had a proper drink in days. “Maybe. I can be charming when I need to be.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“So, this sleeve we’ve been hashing out…,” I begin, letting my voice trail off just enough to watch the way Brent’s eyes flick up from my arm to my face. His lips twitch, and that damn lip ring catches the light like it knows it’s a weapon.

He leans in slightly, fingers brushing my forearm with a featherlight touch. “You mean the one that brought you striding into my shop, all growl and business, working out if I was good enough?”

“You being good enough was never an issue,” I retort, not even trying to hide my grin.

“Mm-hmm.” He tilts his head, sketchbook still in one hand. “You were already plotting how to get in my pants.”

“Debatable,” I say, though I’m fully grinning now. “But not inaccurate.”

Brent sets his sketchbook down and moves between my knees, resting his palms on my thighs. The look he gives me is pure mischief with a dash of fondness that tightens something warm in my chest.

“Then let’s make this full circle, Captain,” he says. “Shirt off. Let me see what I’ve got to work with.”

The way his voice dips on that last word shouldn’t be legal. My breath catches despite myself, and I huff out a laugh as I strip off my tee and toss it onto the nearby chair. I sit up straighter under his gaze, chest bare, muscles already reacting to the attention.

He drops his gaze, sweeping over my right arm—the completed piece he didn’t ink—and then to the blank canvas of my left shoulder and bicep.

His fingers skim my skin, mapping the areas we’ve talked about.

There’s reverence in the way he touches me now, not just as an artist or a lover, but as someone who knows what this means to me.

“I’ve been thinking about starting up near your collarbone,” he murmurs, voice suddenly all focus. “Using that shoulder swell to anchor the first visual weight. Flowing around the deltoid, echoing the structure of the other side without being a copy. Balance without mirroring.”

God, he’s sexy when he talks shop.

I nod, swallowing. “Sounds good.”

“I’m still not completely sure about the final transitions past your elbow, but we’ll talk about it, and I’ll sketch it out later this week,” he says, thumb brushing along the top of my pec absently, like he doesn’t even realise he’s touching me.

“But I’ve got the outlines ready. If we start today, we can rough in the core flow and get the stencil down. ”

“You always this smooth when you seduce your clients?” I ask, voice gruffer than I mean it to be.

Brent smirks, stepping back. “Only the ones I’m dating. And love stupidly much.”

My chest pulls tight, heat washing through me in a way that’s got nothing to do with the temperature of the shop.

“Lucky me,” I manage.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he says, already turning towards his station. “You barged into my shop with forearms like artillery and the grumpiest goddamn frown I’ve ever seen. I was doomed from day one.”

I laugh and lean back in the chair, watching the way he moves—sure, graceful, the way he always is when he’s in his space. It hits me then, not for the first time, how much I missed him over these last couple of weeks. And how fucking glad I am to be here now.

Because this? This feels like home.

Even with the needles, and the ink, and the low buzz of the machine warming up behind me—this is where I want to be.

With him.

And if I have to endure a few hours of pain and his smug teasing to make art that stays with me forever? Hell, sign me up. Especially if I get to feel his hands on me the entire time.

Brent flips the stool around with a practiced flick of his foot and rolls it into position beside the chair. “All right, Captain Crawford. Get comfortable.”

I chuckle low in my throat. “You say that like you don’t enjoy bossing me around.”

His lips twitch as he pulls on his gloves. “Oh, I do. But only because you look like sin when you listen.”

I stretch back into the curve of the chair like I own the damn place. “So what you’re saying is I’m your favourite client.”

He taps the tray beside him and checks the fresh needle cartridge. “I didn’t say that.”

I shoot him a look.

He grins as he preps my skin. “But yes. Obviously.”

After he’s applied the stencil, the machine hums to life, a sharp little buzz that crawls over my skin before he’s even touched me. He leans forwards, one gloved hand steadying my arm, the other guiding the machine towards the top of my shoulder.

“You ready?” he asks, all teasing gone from his voice.

I nod, already braced. Then the first sting hits. Hot, precise, a slow burn as the needle drags that fine black line into the muscle of my shoulder. It’s pain, but it’s also something else. Something grounding. It pins me here, in this chair, in this room—with him.