Page 44 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent’s breath is steady as he works, his touch confident. His body leans in just enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—something warm and woody and definitely unfair. The sleeves of his T-shirt ride up just a little, exposing strong forearms dusted with ink. I focus on that. On him.

“You know,” I murmur after a minute, “this is how all this started.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes not leaving the line he’s pulling. “Me stabbing you? I thought I only did that in my head.”

I grin. “Me coming in here to talk tattoos and walking out with a crush I tried to convince myself I didn’t have.”

He glances up just briefly, that damn lip ring caught between his teeth. “How’d that work out for you?”

“Terribly,” I say. “I fell. Hard. Fast. Full tilt.”

There’s a beat of silence, soft and charged. His gaze flicks up again, warmer this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

The machine buzzes on. He leans closer as he works the curve of the design around my bicep, thumb dragging gently across the skin as he wipes excess ink. I flinch slightly at the contact, but not from pain. From heat.

The whole damn room feels hotter with him this close. My skin’s singing—not just from the needle, but from the way his fingers settle on me with something just shy of reverence.

“You’re doing good,” he murmurs. “Better than most. Some big guys get cocky and end up squirming like toddlers.”

“Rugby players don’t squirm,” I shoot back.

He tilts his head. “You sure about that? ’Cause I’ve seen you post-match. You whine when you’re sore.”

“Lie,” I mutter, even though he’s not wrong.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m lucky?” I say, voice catching as he starts a new stretch of linework just under my arm. “I’m the one getting art and innuendo.”

“And a free show,” he adds. “You’ve been staring at my mouth for ten minutes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He just smirks.

The session flows from there—me drifting in and out of conversation, him focused and maddeningly hot while he works. And somehow, the pain of the tattoo becomes background noise compared to the pulse in my blood every time his fingers brush too close to my ribs.

When he finally lifts the needle, stretches his back, and murmurs, “Break time,” I’m both disappointed and relieved.

He leans over me again, a paper towel in one hand, the other braced on the headrest near my temple. “Want water?” he asks softly.

“No. I want you.”

He blinks.

“After the session,” I amend quickly, voice low.

His grin returns, slow and wicked. “Good. Because I’ve got plans.”

And just like that, I feel the hum of anticipation slide right under my skin—just like his ink.

Brent barely finishes wiping down the ink before I’m already shifting in the chair, wound tighter than a goddamn drum. His voice—normally smooth and low—is in full professional mode as he starts rattling off post-ink care instructions.

“You’ll need to wash it gently tonight. No direct sunlight, no?—”

“I swear to God,” I cut in, sitting up slowly, the muscles across my chest and arm pulling, “if you don’t stop talking and kiss me, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Brent’s mouth quirks. That lip ring catches the light, and I’m done.

“You know,” he says, pulling off his gloves, “I usually like to be courted before being jumped.”

I roll my eyes and stand, crowding into his space. “You courted me with needles and filthy grins. That’s on you.”

He snorts a laugh, but it dies the second I press in, our bodies aligning like magnets with unfinished business. One of his hands finds my waist. The other skims low. Too low. And I almost moan.

But the sharp clang of the front doorbell cuts through the haze.

Brent stills, groaning quietly. “Christy’s out front.”

I pull back a breath, only enough to whisper, “So?”

“So, unless you want an audience….” His voice is gravel now. His restraint is admirable, but unnecessary.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bitten back a noise,” I say. “But you make it bloody difficult.”

Brent mutters something under his breath that sounds like “You’re going to be the death of me” before grabbing my hand. He drags me through the hallway and out into the reception area like a man on a mission. “I’m done for the day!” he calls.

Christy looks up from the desk, barely hiding her smirk. “Oh? That wouldn’t have anything to do with your mystery client turning out to be your boyfriend, would it?”

Brent doesn’t stop walking.

“It’s a good job I cleared your schedule, hey, boss?” she calls after us, clearly enjoying herself.

He flips her a casual two-finger salute. “Remind me to give you a raise.”

I’m still laughing as the door swings shut behind us. The sunlight hits my fresh ink—stinging faintly beneath the wrap—but I barely feel it. All I feel is him.

Brent lives a short walk from the studio, and we take it fast. My legs eat up the distance, driven entirely by need. I’ve never been this impatient to get someone alone before. And maybe it’s not just sex. Maybe it’s the closeness. The hunger. The magnetic pull of being apart too long.

The second the door closes behind us, I spin him around, press him against it, and kiss the breath out of both of us.

His hands go to my waist, pulling me in. I shove my fingers into his hair, tasting the salt of his skin, his breath, the low groan in his throat that sets off a chain reaction in mine.

He tastes like home.

“I missed you,” I say against his mouth, my voice rough.

“I can tell.” He palms my arse. “I could feel you staring at me the whole damn session.”

I grin into his mouth. “Not my fault your stupid sexy face makes it hard to focus.”

His laugh rumbles through my chest, hot and low. Then, before I can blink, he hitches his arms under my thighs and lifts me.

“Brent!” I bark out, half shocked, half thrilled, arms flailing for a second before I lock them around his shoulders. “Jesus, are you trying to rupture something?”

He grunts under his breath, adjusting his grip, and keeps walking—like I don’t weigh nearly two and a half stone more than him.

“You weigh less than the tattoo chair,” he says, breath warm against my ear. “And I move that solo every morning.”

“You are so full of shit,” I laugh, tightening my grip around his neck as my back hits the hallway wall for a second—his mouth crashing into mine like he’s making a point. It’s fast, filthy, and God, I want more.

“You think I can’t handle you?” he murmurs against my lips.

I snort, breathless. “I think if you throw your back out mid-thrust, it’ll kill the vibe.”

“Then I’ll just get creative,” he growls, tightening his grip with a cocky smile and carrying me the rest of the way with purpose. His shoulders strain under my hands, muscles flexing like he’s showing off.

Maybe he is.

And maybe I like it.

When he kicks open the bedroom door and half drops me onto the mattress, I bounce once—legs splayed, chest rising—and he’s on me before I can so much as blink. Hands everywhere. Mouth dragging a trail down my jaw like I’m his reward for surviving two weeks apart.

“You’re a menace,” I murmur, fingers sliding under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the cut of his ribs.

Brent looks at me, eyes dark with something wicked. “You say that like you don’t want more.”

I grin, tugging him in. “I want everything.”

And I mean it.

Brent watches me for a beat, gaze roaming my face like he’s memorising the moment. Then his hands lift, fingers ghosting over my hips, slipping under the hem of my T-shirt like he’s asking permission with the touch alone.

“You’re sure?” he murmurs, voice low and almost reverent. “It’s been a long day, and I know your arm’s?—”

I kiss him before he can finish. Not gentle, not patient—just full-on, mouth to mouth, tongue sweeping his bottom lip until he opens to me. His groan is immediate, muffled but hungry, and suddenly we’re moving together again—uncoiling tension that’s been wound too tight for two weeks.

“I don’t care about my arm,” I pant when we break apart. “I just want you.”

His pupils blow wide at that, and I swear I can feel the moment he gives in completely. We fumble our way out of shirts, jeans kicked off in haste, our mouths barely leaving each other for more than a breath or two.

When we finally fall back onto the bed—him over me, skin to skin—everything goes soft and sharp at the same time. I run my hands along his back, feeling the curve of his spine and the shiver that races through him when I drag my fingertips lightly up to his nape.

Brent kisses me again, slower this time, almost careful—like we’re both trying to savour every second. His hands are everywhere, brushing the curve of my hip, cupping my jaw, sliding across my chest in a way that sends heat spiralling through my gut.

We move together in a rhythm that feels familiar now—like we’ve been doing this forever. There’s no awkwardness. No nerves. Just… us. Tangled up in each other and breathing the same air.

I arch up, his name a whisper against the curve of his ear, and he responds by mouthing down the line of my throat, across my collarbone, and lower—his hands warm and grounding on my sides, steady even as everything inside me turns molten.

When I groan his name, he lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes. There’s heat there, yes, but something else too. Something solid, grounded, and real.

“I really missed you,” he says simply, voice rough and full of meaning.

I wrap my arms around him, hauling him back down so we’re chest to chest, heart to heart. “I missed you too,” I murmur, and the words taste like truth on my tongue.

We move slowly after that, letting the weight of our bodies and the intimacy of skin-on-skin speak louder than anything else. There’s no need to rush—just the need to feel, to be felt, to lose ourselves in each other after being apart.

Brent’s hips press into mine, deliberate, claiming.

His mouth finds the side of my throat, warm lips dragging over the edge of my jaw before he bites—not hard, just enough to make me gasp.

I slide my hands down his back, feeling the tension in his shoulders, the coiled restraint in the way he holds himself. It makes me ache in the best way.

He lifts his head, eyes burning into mine, and there’s something wordless in the look we share. His fingers trail down my chest, teasing with maddening precision, grazing over sensitive skin like he’s memorised every spot that makes me squirm. And maybe he has. God, maybe he always has.

When he finally pushes in—slow and sure—I suck in a breath that punches straight through my chest. Not just from the stretch or the burn, but from the overwhelming rightness of it.

The press of him inside me, the weight of his body above mine—it’s not just sex.

It’s something deeper. We’re not just skin to skin.

We’re soul to soul. And everything in me opens up to let him in.

Brent leans down, forehead to mine, our noses brushing. We breathe the same air, locked together in a rhythm that’s slow, unhurried, yet somehow still urgent with everything we haven’t been able to say in the last two weeks.

We move together like a promise—tight, deliberate, relentless. Every thrust rewrites a memory. Every kiss is a vow. His lips find mine again and again, greedy and reverent, and I hold on to him like he’s the only thing anchoring me to the moment.

And maybe he is.

It’s not long. I wish it were longer. What I really wish is that I weren’t this wrecked from travel, my body this keyed up from being away.

But my control slips fast and hard, and when I come, it’s with a bitten-off curse and my face buried in his shoulder.

Brent follows a beat later, hips jerking, fingers bruising my waist as he spills into me with a groan that makes my toes curl.

Afterwards, the silence is thick with the kind of intimacy that can’t be faked. He rolls off me carefully, breath still heavy, his arm slung lazily over my stomach as he nuzzles against my neck.

I huff, tugging the edge of the blanket up. “That was… too fast.”

He kisses my jaw. “Too good.”

I grunt, letting my eyes slip shut. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Pretty sure I just did.”

I groan, swatting him without any real heat, but my lips won’t stop twitching.

Brent shifts, his fingers lacing with mine beneath the sheets. “You okay?”

“Exhausted. Sticky. Bruised. Mildly embarrassed by my overzealous dick.” I pause. “But yeah. I’m okay.”

He kisses my shoulder. “Welcome home, Captain.”

I turn my head just enough to press my lips to his hair. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Home.”

And just like that, I let myself rest. Not because I’m tired—though I am—but because for the first time in a long damn time, I feel safe enough to.

Because Brent is here.

And so am I.