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Chapter one

Fever

Aaron had long since figured out Kenny’s game.

He couldn’t live with a master of the mind for two years and not learn a thing or two. Not that he minded playing, either. But the thing was, Kenny could have him on his knees with a single look if he wanted. He didn’t need this slow-burn build-up, drawn-out performance he favoured like his pair of old comfy slippers. Aaron would crawl for him, no coaxing required. Kenny knew that.

Which was precisely why he made him wait.

Why he dragged it out.

Which was exactly what he was doing right fucking then.

Arsehole.

Aaron got it. This was Intro to Psych. Foundation fucking year. Fuck it, they taught this at GCSE level. Conditioning. Positive reinforcement. Classical fucking Pavlovian seduction. That’s what Kenny was doing. Aaron knew it. As a fucking graduate of the forensic persuasion and taught by Dr Kenneth Lyons himself for most of it, he was smart enough to know what was going on in his own fucking house. By his own bloody boyfriend. Because Kenny was a sadist. Used affection like a scalpel. Precise. Deliberate. Calibrated to elicit a reaction. Not praise for the sake of it. Not needy, or desperate. Oh, no. Kenny gave compliments the way he gave orgasms. Intensely, and only when earned. And because of that, they were addictive.

Aaron knew what Kenny was doing.

Knew the game. The psychology. The profile. Aaron could write the lecture himself. And he heard his own bored, mocking delivery in his head as he sat here, at the dining room table, the window beside him rattling faintly in the sea wind while he scribbled his fake name and fake shit all over the bloody Disclosure and Barring BS forms.

“Seduction through strategic withholding. Operant conditioning through delayed gratification. Control through softness.”

Outside, the coastline sulked beneath a heavy grey sky, the winter tide chewing quietly at the edges of the beach. Gulls wheeled lazily above slate-coloured waves, and somewhere beyond the dunes, someone’s dog barked into the wind. But inside, the cottage was all warm wood and dimmed lamplight, radiator ticking under the windowsill, the air thick with the faint scent of Kenny’s coffee and whatever ridiculous vanilla candle Aaron had accidentally come to like. Cosy. Lulling. A scene set by Kenny to orchestrate a patient undoing.

Still he fell for it.

Every fucking time.

Even though Aaron could see the strings, he still danced. Still trembled under the subtle brush of fingers that shouldn’t mean anything. Like earlier, when Kenny had walked past the dining table, spouting something about his A Level lecture prep—Freud or Jung or whatever other long-dead daddy complex bore—and as he passed, he stroked the back of his finger up Aaron’s neck. There. Beneath his ear. Hardly touched him, really. But it was enough to make Aaron freeze mid-form, pen stuttering on the line, because that was how it always started.

Kenny’s opening move.

His first piece in their private game of seduction chess.

And that nothing touch made Aaron hyperaware of every inch of skin he had.

Kenny didn’t even look back as he did it. He wandered off into the kitchen as if he hadn’t set Aaron’s nerve endings on fire, phone still at his ear, talking about “attachment patterns in borderline presentations” as if he wasn’t currently dismantling Aaron with the same technique.

Aaron dropped his pen. Slumped back in the chair.

Fuck.

It was starting.

And he hated it.

Hated how much he loved it. Craved it. Was a fucking slave to it.

A sharp snap of fingers from the kitchen had Aaron jerking his head up, glare already loaded. Kenny’s eyes met his, brows raised.

Aaron mouthed a defiant, What?

Kenny pointed at the unfinished forms without breaking stride on the call. “Yes, absolutely, I can expand on that.”

Aaron flipped him the finger.

Kenny didn’t break eye contact, but his voice stayed smooth for the phone. “Yes, I’ve got significant first-hand observation of oppositional defiance and aversion to perceived authority. Fascinating how it plays out in real time.”

Aaron poked his tongue into his cheek and made the wank sign.

Kenny cocked his head, arching an eyebrow but his tone never wavered. “No, I agree. Discipline is often the only effective intervention.” He curved his lips the faintest fraction as he said it, a private smile meant only for Aaron.

Aaron snorted. Turned away. He should be immune to all this by now.

He wasn’t, though.

He was pathetic.

Because part of him—the shameful, sick part that was utterly Kenny’s through and through—craved the authority. The attention. The affection given only when earned. And the delicious ache of anticipation.

He wanted the fucking reward.

The praise.

Cause when Kenny finally breathed that, “Good boy,” and shoved him down, touched him like he bloody meant it, Aaron turned to the gooey, grovelling mush Kenny had made him and wanted him to be. For him only. He became a fucking walking Crème Egg of a man. Split wide, soft in the middle, shell cracked for Kenny to lick him clean, lapping up every sweet, fucked-up inch until Aaron melted on his tongue and stayed there.

Prick.

Aaron stared at the kitchen doorway. Kenny was still talking. Still wearing those jeans. That fucking shirt and jumper combo that made Aaron want to peel it off with his teeth. Hair down, glasses on, looking like the world’s hottest moral dilemma.

The bloke could say it.

“Hey, baby. Wanna fuck?”

Aaron would drop the forms, bend over the table, and let him have at it. No hesitation, no buildup, no need for preamble. Kenny knew that. Knew exactly how easy it would be. But that wasn’t his style. Oh, no, no. That was too easy. Too ordinary. Too normal.

And Dr Kenneth Lyons had long since walked away from the illusion of normalcy, peeling it off like an old skin the moment Aaron entered his world and made control feel holy.

And this—the teasing, the praise, the unbearable waiting—was who Kenny was now.

Not the man who asked.

The one who made Aaron ache until he begged to be undone.

And Aaron would.

Every time.

Eyes wide open, crawling to the edge to feel Kenny pull him back by a single whispered word.

Sure, over the year or so they’d been here, living in this quasi-normal domesticity on the Isle of Wight, they’d had the occasional fast and filthy. Moments when the control snapped, and Aaron clawed at him ‘cause he thought the world was ending and the only thing that could ground him was skin, sweat, and cock. Kenny’s cock specifically. He’d climbed onto Kenny’s lap before the man could protest, rutted through layers of clothes, dragging feral lips along his throat, yanking his hair, begging without saying a single bloody word. And Kenny, when he read him right, let it happen.

Because that was the point.

It wasn’t about surrender, not in those moments.

It was about rescue.

Intercepting whatever spiral Aaron was mid-fall through and giving him something solid to hold onto. Something real and unfiltered. Kenny didn’t give in because he lost control in those moments. Oh no. He gave in because he saw Aaron and knew when he needed rough over ritual.

So on those occasions, Kenny had unzipped himself, pulled Aaron close, and fucked him hard. Right there. On that sofa there, the one in front of the roaring open fire. Curtains wide open, no nets, anyone could’ve walked by on their way to the patch of the beach that was a dog walker’s heaven.

They had been hot fucks.

But more than that…they were his lifeline.

They’d done it in the kitchen a few times, too. Kenny mid-stir of some sad bastard dinner and Aaron was antsy and needy. He’d ground himself over the counter, give a sultry dance or two to the classics being played on the jukebox, like the one that was playing right then, Peggy Sue’s Fever, and Aaron would whisper filth until Kenny shoved him over the worktop and gave him a stuffing with the oven timer still ticking.

And once—fuck, yeah—once Aaron had crawled under Kenny’s desk and sucked him off while he marked some dead-eyed student’s half-arsed essay on Erikson’s psychosocial stages, Kenny’s red pen trembling with every bob of Aaron’s head.

But see, those weren’t the norm.

They were lapses. Cracks in Kenny’s carefully constructed control. Rare enough to be treasured. Dangerous enough to be addictive. Because most of the time, Kenny made him wait. Made him want. And the fucker made him beg.

Fuck, he was so fucking horny right now.

He shoved the forms aside and clicked his pen closed. More for dramatic effect than actual productivity. Chaos, ever the loyal golden retriever who left his side even less than Kenny did, huffed at his feet, reshuffled himself, then promptly fell back to sleep. Aaron glanced up to Kenny again, leaning against the counter mid-phone call, all calm and businesslike, talking rotas and lecture prep unbothered that he was dismantling Aaron’s will to function.

And that fucking hand.

Not the one holding the phone to his ear. The other one. Resting there. Fingers long and elegant, tapping the rim of his coffee mug. Those fingers had been inside him. Knuckle-deep, curling slow, ruthless. Stroking that spot again and again until Aaron was sobbing, tears spilling down his cheeks, begging for more, for anything, for everything. Until he didn’t know where the pain ended and the praise began.

And now, over the next few days, those same fingers would trace a languid, ruinous path across Aaron’s body as part of this sadistic little edging routine Kenny had him trapped in.

Aaron knew the order. Had memorised it.

He’d counted them. Those chess moves. Subtle touches. Every place Kenny touched him during this gradual, exquisite torture. As if it was science. A bloody forensic exercise.

Fifteen. At least.

His inner wrist, where he now had a new tattoo. A Scorpio glyph inked in fine black lines curling into a barbed tail with the feint outline of a moth inked above the curve. It was a quiet nod to the part of him that still chased the light even when it burned. Kenny liked to press his thumb there and say, “Steady.”

The notch at his collarbone, where praise turned to punishment.

The back of his knees. Who even knew?

His ankles. Psychosomatic now; a single stroke and Aaron twitched as if shocked.

The soft indent at the base of his spine.

His ears, where Kenny whispered filth in that calm, clipped tone of his, and Aaron would melt.

The arch of his foot. Fucking hell.

The underside of his cock. Naturally.

His hipbones. Bitten, not kissed.

His throat. His mouth. His scalp. The curve of his jaw. The insides of his arms. And right beneath his navel where Kenny sometimes rested a hand and waited.

It wasn’t anatomy. It was psychology.

Kenny knew which touches soothed, which ones sparked arousal, and which ones made Aaron fold in on himself with a shudder and go pliant in his hands. Because he’d learned them. Over time. Piece by piece. Each one studied, tested, refined.

Bollocks. He adjusted his jeans.

Then watched Kenny end the call, set his phone down on the counter and pick up his coffee, gaze settling on him. Aaron felt it in his bones. This was going to be one of those weeks. He could see it in his fucking eyes. The glint, the restrained smirk, the languid lift of that stupid coffee mug to his lips without once breaking eye contact. They were two opponents in the ring. Psychological warfare through praise and delayed gratification. Waiting to see who cracked first.

Well, fuck that bollocks.

Aaron shoved the chair back with a sharp scrape, and Chaos scrambled to his feet a second later. Conditioned too now, poor thing. He recognised the signs of a full-blown Aaron episode. One glance and he clearly clocked that Aaron was making a beeline for the main daddy in the house, so he kept his distance.

Smart boy.

Aaron stormed into the kitchen, heat coiling in his gut, fists balled in the sleeves of his hoodie, armed with half a plan and no fucking clue what to do with it. Rage and want tangling behind his ribs like barbed wire.

He stepped in close, invading Kenny’s space, toes lined up in challenge. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

Kenny arched a brow. “Drinking coffee?”

“That’s not coffee. That’s psychological manipulation in a mug.”

Kenny smirked. “You say that like it’s not delicious.”

“It’s not. It’s vile.”

“Not from me.” Kenny then clamped his hand around the back of Aaron’s head, firm and possessive, tilting him until their mouths hovered a breath apart. He didn’t kiss him. Aaron knew he wouldn’t. No. He let the distance ache, voice dropping to a low command, “Open.”

Aaron obeyed before he could think better of it, instinct and want tearing through him, and Kenny swept his tongue across his, bitter coffee seared into the taste. Their lips never touched. Aaron leaned in anyway, chasing it, desperate. But Kenny released him, leaving nothing but the sting of absence.

Kenny’s eyes glinted with triumph and the sound tearing out of Aaron was pathetic. Half-growl, half-groan. He surged closer, dragging his mouth across Kenny’s throat, licking through the coarse beard, desperate to leave something—anything—of himself behind. His tongue, his teeth, his trembling body. A mark. A claim. A plea.

Two can play this game.

He could force Kenny to react, to feel.

Except Kenny didn’t falter. He raised his cup, sipping his revolting coffee as if Aaron weren’t spiralling against him. As if the frantic licks and ragged breaths were nothing but static noise. The humiliation scorched through Aaron’s chest, hot and unbearable. He was trembling, undone, while Kenny stood steady, untouchable.

Aaron bit his earlobe harder, punishment and prayer tangled in the act, and his voice cracked against Kenny’s skin, stripped bare of pride. “Fuck me.”

It wasn’t defiance anymore. It was surrender, raw and humiliating, the need spilling out of him no matter how hard he tried to hold it back. And Kenny, smirking, coffee in hand, hadn’t even needed to kiss him to bring him there.

“You’ve got forms to finish.”

“And you’ve got me on the verge of causing a national incident. You can’t expect me to sit and fill out boring arse forms when I’m this fucking hard.”

Kenny tilted his head. “But I need you soft, baby.”

Aaron bristled. “I am soft. Look at me. I’m a walking, throbbing marshmallow, pathetic enough to melt at your feet if that’s what gets you off.”

“You’re very pretty when you beg, I’ll give you that.” Kenny took a sip of his coffee, the reflective slurp somehow infuriating and refined all at once. Obnoxious, but maddeningly him.

“Fuck you.”

Kenny arched a brow. “See? That’s not soft, baby.” Then—fuck him—he cupped Aaron’s erection over his jeans. “That’s hard. Rock hard.”

Then he walked away.

Aaron stayed rooted, vibrating with frustration, cock aching, pride stinging raw. He could feel the victory hanging in the air, smug and absolute, and it made his skin crawl. No way was he letting it end there. Not without pushback. Not without something. If he rolled over too easily, Kenny won. And, fine, okay, maybe Kenny already had. But Aaron wasn’t about to let that be the last word. Not when the heat in his body was screaming for an outlet, and his chest tightened with humiliation and overwhelming need.

So he did what any self-respecting brat with a praise kink and no patience would do.

He popped the button on his jeans.

Shoved them down just enough.

Fisted himself.

“Wanna watch me come without you?”

Kenny stilled. Nothing more than a slight tilt of his head as if this were simply a psychological event to observe. Aaron half expected him to keep walking. Vanish down the hall, step by deliberate fucking step, and shut himself into that sanctified room of his and catalogue the moment in neat, clinical notes, leaving Aaron to fall apart alone.

But he didn’t.

He turned. Slowly. With grace. And a control that made Aaron want to scream.

Then Kenny spoke, cool and precise. “If you make yourself come, that’ll add days onto this. Plural.”

Aaron froze his fist on his cock, breath catching. Pavlov’s fucking dog—that’s what he was, conditioned down to muscle and bone. One command and his body betrayed him. He swallowed, heat crawling up his throat, and snapped back anyway. Because Kenny loved him more when he did that.

“Maybe I want more days. Maybe I wanna see how long you can keep this up before you bend me over the table and fuck me so hard you break your own spine.”

Kenny lifted his coffee cup, lips curving around the rim. “You underestimate my agility.”

Aaron held his gaze. Kenny sipped his coffee. And it was Aaron who broke first, breathing out a laugh, shaking his head, looking away even as he felt the quiet rumble of Kenny’s amusement under his skin. Fuck, he loved this man. Especially like this. When he put Aaron in his place, held it all with irrefutable ease, and found the whole thing amusing.

But the game wasn’t over. Not yet. Aaron slid his foreskin back, circling his thumb through the slick at the tip, then raised it to his mouth. He sucked the taste off with a low hum, eyes locking back on Kenny.

Yes. That landed.

Kenny crossed the room with quiet certainty, eyes never leaving Aaron’s.

Aaron’s heart thumped with the naive, hopeless spark that maybe Kenny might drop to his knees and take over.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

And worse? Aaron didn’t even want him to.

Kenny curled one hand around Aaron’s wrist, steady and sure, then wrapped the other around Aaron’s cock and stopped him. Held him still with unbearable tenderness.

“Behave, baby.” Kenny pressed his thumb where his pulse thudded. “You’re nearly there.”

Aaron’s knees almost gave out.

But Kenny took his cock from his hand, and Aaron let him tuck him back inside his jeans, all slow and sweet and infuriating. He didn’t fight it. Why would he? This turned him on more than anything he had ever known in his entire fucking life. So he stood there and let him, heat in his cheeks and something fierce and aching blooming in his chest.

Because it wasn’t about the orgasm.

It was about Kenny choosing when Aaron got to fall apart.

And telling him he was good for waiting.

Good for wanting.

Good.

Kenny lingered a moment longer, drifting his gaze over Aaron’s face, then he leaned in, close enough for his lips to brush the shell of Aaron’s ear, and breathed it out, smooth as silk. “Good boy.”

Aaron nearly fucking came.

Two words, spoken with that quiet authority Kenny used when he wanted Aaron wrecked without ever laying a finger on him. A reward. A benediction. A promise wrapped in satin and precision.

He trembled. His cock throbbed in his jeans. And a whimper scraped the back of his throat.

And Kenny—fucker—knew.

Of course, he knew.

Smug and satisfied, he stepped back. Turned. Walked away as if nothing had happened and left Aaron standing there, wrecked and buzzing and trembling in the ruins of his restraint.

Aaron blinked after him, stunned and soaked in heat.

Then, breathless, hoarse, because of course he was Aaron, and because Kenny loved him for never going down without a fight, Aaron shouted, “Masochist!”

Kenny chuckled. “Think you mean sadist.” Then he raised his coffee in a lazy salute and climbed the stairs, leaving Aaron in the wreckage.

Chaos padded in a moment later, tongue lolling, tail wagging, and barked at Aaron’s feet. Aaron crouched, ruffled the fur between his ears.

“You wanna go for a walk, huh?” He grabbed the lead from the hook on the wall. “All right then. C’mon, boy.” He clipped the lead, scratched gently behind the dog’s ear, and said, “Good boy.”

Then froze.

Rolled his eyes.

Groaned.

“Fuck praise. Fuck edging. Fuck fucking psychology.” Then, as he walked to the door, he yelled up the stairs and raised his middle finger. “And fuck you!”

“Could you grab some stamps while you’re out?” Kenny called down. “Need to send these Christmas cards.”

Aaron cursed under his breath, then yanked the door open.

Kenny’s voice trailed down the stairs. “That’s a good boy.”

PRE ORDER Don’t Shoot Me Santa

Read on to introduce yourself with Warren Beckford from the first chapter of Worth the Risk (Worth It Book3) coming 31 December 2025…

Worthbridge didn’t look dangerous.

Not from the motorway. Nor from the blinking welcome sign wedged between a retail park and a Costa. And certainly not from the quiet sprawl of terraced rooftops curling toward the choppy sea, where church spires rose like sentinels in the coastal mist. On the surface, this one looked a doddle.

DS Warren Beckford had been in far worse places.

But he knew better than to judge a place by its postcard front. Years buried in organised crime cases, deep undercover, long hours shifting lies, Warren had learned one thing above all. It was always the quiet towns that bled the deepest.

So he pulled into a car park behind a shuttered community centre, where the Southeast Regional Organised Crime Unit (SEROCU) had set up a temporary field base and got his game face on.

New case. New team. New name.

Another life to disappear into.

He killed the engine of his black MG, stepped out, and locked it, flicking the keys between his fingers. Then, after tying back his collar-length locs, checking his reflection in the blacked-out windows of his car, he tucked his sunglasses into the V of his white tee and approached the squat brick building. Boots heavy. Mind already shifting into gear.

He buzzed for entry.

A beat.

Then a voice crackled through the box: “Yeah?”

“DS Beckford. Reporting in.”

There was a pause. Then the lock buzzed, releasing with a solid click.

Warren pushed open the door, stepping into a corridor lined with blank noticeboards and peeling paint, remnants of the community centre’s old life. With the lingering scent of instant coffee and worn-out carpet welcoming him in, along with the man standing at the end. Warren did his usual check. White, mid-forties. Buzz-cut, greying at the edges. Suit creased but clean, and the lanyard tucked into his breast pocket identified him as DI Luke Havers. Warren knew the type. Ex-Met, by the stance. Probably driven. Definitely bitter.

Warren held up his ID card.

Havers glanced at him, sharp enough to cut glass. “Top of the stairs. Briefing Room Three. Patel’s waiting.” He turned away, but not before muttering, “Try not to piss anyone off before we start.”

Warren offered a faint smile, dry and deliberate. “No promises.”

So his past precedes him all the way to the Essex coast, does it? Standard.

He took the stairs two at a time. Not out of urgency, but habit. And he moved down the corridor toward Briefing Room Three, where the air grew heavier the closer he got. He rapped his knuckles on the open door, stepping into a cloud of stale coffee and unspoken tension, the room thick enough with it to mask his own hotel shower gel and splash of Tom Ford. Inside, the task force had claimed the space like all others: a whiteboard cluttered with red string, black-and-white mugshots, and marker-smeared code names. Movement charts. Routes in and out. It was always the same: a theatre of war, laid out in marker pen and Blu Tack.

And there, front and centre, was the one who’d pulled him into this mess.

“DS Beckford, come in.” DCI Shalini Patel, head of the Radley task force.

She was the one who’d dragged his name from whatever dusty file still flagged him as “high-value asset” instead of “disciplinary headache” and plucked him out of his quiet desk exile in London. He knew how these things worked. They brought in someone like him for three reasons: one, they were trying to bury him quietly, wrap up the loose threads left behind in London and keep him out of anyone’s line of sight. Two, they needed his skillset. Deep cover. Social engineering. The dirty detail that didn’t get typed into a warrant.

And three…Yeah, sometimes, he knew, they needed a Black face in the field.

He didn’t really care which it was. As long as it got him off a desk, he could live with anything. Because desk duty? That was another kind of hell.

Warren dropped into the chair closest to the wall, instinctively angling his body to watch the exits. Two years undercover in the backstreets of south London had rewired him that way. Twitchy with his back exposed, too quick to read a room in a blink. Gang culture made him live in his peripherals.

He offered a single nod to the woman at the front.

“Morning, team.” Patel didn’t bother with pleasantries and with one click of the projector remote, the hum of chatter died. “As I’m sure most of you could recite in your sleep, Graham Radley has been the subject of ongoing investigations for years. But for the record, and because clarity is everything, let me explain exactly where we stand, and why this task force exists.”

She inclined her head at the next slide. A professionally edited headshot filled the wall. Not a mugshot. That man hadn’t ever touched a custody suite. He’d dodged the system for far too long. And Warren clenched his jaw as the all-too-familiar itch in his blood forced him upright. That was the drive in him that never quieted until a so-called untouchable finally hit the ground. This was his work. His purpose. Bringing down the bastards who strutted outside the law’s reach.

And Radley was worse than most.

Late forties. Smug. Every inch the respectable entrepreneur and philanthropist, all glossy magazine spreads and charity galas. A public mask polished so bright it dazzled. But Warren knew better. Behind the ingratiating smile was a man who ran his empire on blood and fear. A criminal mastermind hiding in plain sight.

Untouchable? Until now.

“Radley has embedded himself in Worthbridge and the surrounding towns for more than fifteen years.” Patel addressed the room as if none of them already knew this. “On record, his portfolio looks clean. Property development, a scrap metal dealership, and a network of cleaning and security firms. All registered, all compliant. But intelligence assessments identify him as the principal of a regional organised crime group. His OCG structure is layered: facilitators, recruiters, enforcers. His enterprise provides cover for money laundering, asset movement, and control of territory. At its core, the group is trafficking-led. Coercion-based recruitment is their main driver. Targeting vulnerable teenagers and young adults, particularly those with care backgrounds, debt issues, or mental health vulnerabilities. Once brought in, victims are controlled through intimidation, violence, and dependency. This isn’t a street-level gang. It’s a structured criminal business model, and its commodity is people.”

She clicked again.

The slide shifted: grainy stills of petrol stations, alleyway handovers, school gates.

“He’s good at securing loyalty. Half the kids he uses don’t even realise they’re victims. The ones who do rarely speak, and when they do, it’s under duress.” She let the silence breathe, the weight of it sinking in. “But this year, things escalated. Fourteen-year-old Alfie Carter, a student at Worthbridge Academy, tried to report one of Radley’s lookouts. He was attacked for it. His father, ex-army Staff Sergeant Nathan Carter, stepped in and nearly lost his life. The incident forced Radley’s crew underground. Not long after, a string of arson attacks tore through properties linked to Radley’s businesses. Covering their tracks? Almost certainly. Then it escalated when Worthbridge Academy was set ablaze. Alfie Carter trapped inside. If it weren’t for the bravery of firefighters, he may well have lost his life. The connection is there for anyone to see.”

Another slide.

This time: scenes from the fire. Smoke. Flashing lights. A stretcher.

“We believe the fire was deliberate. An escalation tactic set by one of Radley’s own runners inside the school. A warning. A message to anyone else tempted to talk. But it backfired. Since that night, we’ve seen movement. Slips. Cracks in the façade. Radley’s network isn’t the fortress it used to be. Fear’s creeping in, and when fear takes hold?” She peered at the room under her lashes. “People make mistakes. The kind we can use.”

She turned back to the slides.

“This operation isn’t about pressure. Or arrest quotas. No fast turnarounds. We’re not here to spook Radley. We’re here to bleed him dry. From the inside out.” A pause. Then she looked at Warren. “This is where you come in.”

COMING 31 DECEMBER 2025

A teaser snippet of Aaron and Kenny, after Killing Me Softly and before the mania of Don’t Shoot Me Santa!

The fire burned low, a bed of embers breathing soft heat into the room. Chaos was sprawled across the rug, snoring faintly, paws twitching in dreams. The television cast a muted glow from an old black-and-white film of which Kenny had convinced Aaron he would find romantic. He’d argued that if Aaron loved the music of that era, he might as well learn to appreciate Bogart and Grant too.

But he could tell, Aaron wasn’t really watching.

He was half-asleep against Kenny’s side, bare feet propped on the coffee table, toes waggling toward the flames. The weight of him had become familiar now. Expected, even. He belonged there. Beside him. The missing piece Kenny hadn’t known he was still searching for.

Once, there’d been another half. One lost long ago, ripped from him by tragedy. And somehow this complicated, beautiful disaster of a man had taken her place.

Kenny smiled, turned his head, and pressed a quiet kiss into Aaron’s hair. He settled his arm around him, trailing his fingers down the curve of Aaron’s spine, slipping beneath the loose waistband of his joggers and tracing circles across the small of his back, then lower. Just enough to remind, not demand. He tried to keep his eyes on the film, but his focus had drifted.

He was caught instead by this: the quiet miracle of Aaron breathing beside him. Of him softening. Yielding. Learning how to bend without breaking.

He wasn’t always like this. Most days, Aaron was still thunder. Restless, quick to bite, forever testing where the edges lay. And without access to proper therapy, Kenny had stepped into that space, trying not to blur the lines too far. He knew it was unethical. Lovers shouldn’t dissect each other’s minds. But how could he not? Aaron was a body full of ghosts and reflexes. All he’d ever needed was a quiet voice, a steady hand.

And, sometimes, control.

Nearly two years had passed since they’d fled to the Isle of Wight, running from everything determined to ruin them. In that time, Aaron had become everything Kenny couldn’t let go of. They’d built peace out of ashes. A fragile calm that felt earned. Kenny had loved him, cared for him, and built a world small enough to feel safe inside.

And somewhere in all that quiet, he’d fallen even deeper. So deeply that the thought of Aaron one day walking away was a possibility he couldn’t bear to hold.

Lately, that fear had grown into something else. An idea. A need to find a way to keep him here. Not through promises or guilt, but through something stronger.

Something Aaron wouldn’t want to leave.

Because he needed it. Even if he didn’t yet know how to ask for it.

Kenny drifted his gaze back to the screen, though his mind was far away from the neat moral arcs of old cinema. The hero was lecturing the heroine on restraint, as if willpower alone could tame chaos. Kenny smiled at the irony.

Restraint. He’d lived by it. Taught it. Built entire worlds from it.
But lately, it felt less like discipline and more like denial.

He glanced down at Aaron, the faint crease between his brows, the muscle jumping in his jaw even when half asleep. Even softened, Aaron fought invisible battles. Always braced for the next blow that would never come. Kenny had spent so long cushioning the world around him, he’d forgotten one truth: Aaron didn’t just need gentleness. He needed to yield to something that wouldn’t hurt him.

The fire cracked softly. Aaron stirred. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Overthinking.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Your occupation’s retired.” Aaron nudged him with his knee. “And you’re meant to be watching a film with your boyfriend.”

“You’re half asleep.”

“I’m resting my eyes from all that deep dive you’re doing into my psyche. Stop analysing me when I’m relaxed. It makes me nervous.”

Kenny smiled at that. “That’s the best time to do it.”

“You’re manipulative.”

“And you’re not the easiest patient to ignore.”

“Good.” Aaron cracked one eye open. “You’d be bored otherwise.”

There it was. That familiar edge. Teasing, yes, but threaded with defiance. The invitation Aaron always issued when the air grew too close to something real. Their game. His shield.

Kenny tilted his head, studying him. “Feet off the table.”

Aaron flicked his eyes open, a spark behind them. He was too comfortable to rise fully to the bait, so he drawled, “Make me.”

The words came lazy, but the challenge in them sliced clean through the quiet. Kenny could have sighed. Could have laughed, tickled him, or shoved him until he relented. But something in him shifted. Not this time.

He set his wine glass down, turned, and met Aaron’s gaze with a look that was calm, steady and absolute. “Feet off the table.”

The room hummed with the low sound of the fire and Chaos’s soft snore. Aaron’s mouth curved in that half-smile he wore when he couldn’t decide whether to push harder or give in.

Then, slowly, he sighed. Drew his feet from the table. Planted them on the floor with exaggerated care, as if to say happy now?

Kenny stroked his knuckles along Aaron’s cheek, then cupped his chin with a finger and thumb to tilt him up to meet his gaze. “See? No bloodshed required.”

Aaron huffed a soft laugh, but there was no real fight left in it. “You like bossing me around.”

“No.” Kenny gave a gentle jerk of Aaron’s chin. “I like when you listen.”

Then he leaned in and kissed him. Languid, unhurried, rich with warmth. He tasted the faint trace of red wine on Aaron’s lips, the hum of quiet contentment that followed, and the way Aaron leaned into it without thinking.

When Kenny finally pulled back, he dropped his voice to a low hush. “Watch the film.”

Aaron looked away, back to the television though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a faint, satisfied curve. Kenny leaned back, studying him. That beautiful contradiction of defiance and trust, the storm that had finally learned to rest.

And in that moment, Kenny knew he was right.

It was time.
Not to push.
But to lead.

Don’t Shoot Me Santa OUT 7 NOVEMBER 2025!

Worth the Fight is almost here! Releasing 30 September 2025, this second installment in the Worth It series brings readers back to the small coastal town of Worthbridge, where danger runs deep and love burns hotter.

This time, it’s firefighter Reece Morgan’s turn in the spotlight. Known for his tattoos, reckless charm, and refusal to settle down, Reece never expected to find himself caught in a romance that could change everything. But when sparks fly with paramedic Trent Lawson, the station flirt may finally have met his match…

Read the full first chapter RIGHT NOW by scrolling down….

Chapter One

Heat of the Moment

Worthbridge Fire Station had sweat, smoke, and male bravado soaked into the walls.

Which suited Reece fine.

“Come on, boss. Any slower, I’ll have time to make the tea between punches.”

“Shut it, Morgan.” Crew Manager Ben Miller huffed, swiping his gloved fist through the air and missing by a country mile. “I’m going easy on you. Didn’t want to ruin the face you rely on for getting laid.”

“Not my face they want.” Reece smirked, ducked left, and tapped a neat jab to Miller’s ribs, sending the bigger man stumbling back two steps. “And that’s rich, coming from someone built like a fridge and fights like a tumble dryer.”

Laughter echoed around the makeshift gym set up in the back of the apparatus bay. Weights stacked near lockers, a half-deflated Swiss ball lurked by the corner, and a sparring mat rolled out beneath their boots. The punchbag had seen better days, stitched and duct-taped like some Frankenstein’s monster, and the sound system was blasting out old-school garage, the station manager trying to resurrect his glory days from the early noughties.

Reece bounced on the balls of his feet, muscle vest damp with sweat and clinging to every line of his muscular torso. He wore it for one reason: to show off the ink. And his body. Not that Ben Miller, his direct supervisor, gave a toss. Poor bloke had a wife and three daughters who’d probably string Reece up for sending their man home looking as if he’d swallowed a wasp. But Reece liked his ink and worked hard for his body. And more than a few of the blokes down The Lighthouse, Worthbridge’s favourite gay haunt and his personal release valve when the pressure built too high, appreciated it.

He feigned a left. Miller flinched. Reece grinned.

“Jesus, Reece,” Stephanie, the station’s lone female among a sea of male posturing, called from the sidelines, stripping off her gear after drills. “Save some ego for the shift, yeah?”

“Can’t. It’s all I’ve got left now. I’m thirty-five and single.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Steph rolled her eyes.

Reece didn’t miss a beat, and he dodged another swing, then cuffed Miller on the ear. “Some of us are picky.”

“And some of us get caught chatting up uni girls during their kitchen fire last week.” Ahmed, their watch manager, entered with a clipboard and no patience. “Wrap it up. We’ve got gear checks in ten.”

“Tell the girls to stop sliding into my DMs, then,” Reece shot back, peeling off his gloves.

Standard banter. That’s all it was. Let them say what they liked. Playboy, flirt, a walking HR complaint in a half-zipped turnout jacket. It kept things simple. Easy. He could let off steam from the day job… or night job, when the flames didn’t wait for daylight. And if anyone asked, that wasn’t smoke rising off his skin, it was the heat he carried everywhere he went. But everyone knew it was mostly the girls doing the chasing these days. And yeah, he flipped the coin when the mood struck, but if his crewmates thought he was hanging around uni halls or flirting with anyone still living off instant noodles and TikTok trends, they could think again.

Because with women, he liked them older. Experienced. Knew what they wanted and didn’t mind telling him where to go if he got cheeky. And men… well. He’d had his share. Enough to know his type and enough sense to pretend he didn’t. Because that was easier, wasn’t it? Safer. No strings, no drama. Just a few laughs, a few drinks, and if the night got hot enough, a name he’d forget by morning.

Better that than wanting the one bloke who never stayed long enough to be anything more.

And Christ, wasn’t that the story of his life?

He caught Miller’s shoulder and gave him a slap. “Good round. You nearly tickled me.”

Miller flipped him the bird.

Reece dragged a towel across his face, the sweat cooling fast, then tipped back a swig from his dented water bottle. The station wasn’t much. Peeling paint, buzzing lights in the locker room, but it was home. He’d worked here for over ten years, so long that he’d scrawled his name on gear, tools and even the dartboard in the rec room to claim some authority. Cause he wasn’t climbing any ladders that didn’t lead to a burning roof. Command never interested him. Let someone else chase promotions and paperwork. Reece led when it counted. On the ground, in the heat, when decisions were life or death. He had no time for titles or the politics that came with them. Watch Manager? Not a chance. He’d rather be the one kicking down the door than the one signing off the risk assessment that allowed them to do so.

So this place? Suited him perfectly. Faded red brick held together by history and habit, peeling paint in the showers no one bothered to fix, a common room sofa with more stains than cushions, and a kettle that let out a banshee’s wail every time it boiled. Rough around the edges. Worn in. But still standing. Still working.

Like him.

A voice crackled over the intercom before he could even drop the gloves.

“All crews. Fire call. Report of fire in residential block. Persons reported. Repeat: persons reported.”

One heartbeat. That’s all it took. Playtime was over. Lads, joking like schoolboys, snapped straight into soldiers. It always went like this. Gear thrown on, boots slammed into, trousers yanked up, braces snapped over shoulders, jackets shrugged into without hesitation. The tension changed. Became taut. Focused. Serious. Every one of them moving as if their next breath depended on it. Because somewhere, it might.

And this was Reece’s town. He wouldn’t watch it burn.

“Steph, Chris!” Ahmed had already pulled his helmet on. “You’re BA one with me. Reece, you’re BA two with Miller. Let’s move.”

Reece nodded, boots hitting the tarmac as they jogged for the appliance. His heart pounded. Not from adrenaline. Not yet.

It started when he heard the address.

Woodrow Crescent. That block had problems. Cheap construction. Cluttered stairwells. Old tenants and young single mums. Cladding. He’d turned up to enough minor incidents there. Reece knew the address too well.

He swung into the back of the engine, clipped in, checked the Breathing Apparatus set at his feet. The harness tightened automatically, mask clipped to the side, air cylinder at the ready. Over his shoulder, Steph ran through the rapid donning drill they’d all done a hundred times. Reece could do this with his eyes closed.

The siren screamed. They rolled out.

Worthbridge’s tangled backstreets tore past the window as the engine’s tyres hissed over slick tarmac, spraying dirty water into the guttered hush of June heat. Sirens howled ahead of them, scattering pigeons and slicing through the thick, salt-heavy air. Outside the cab, the town streaked past in flashes of rust and weary blue with paint-chipped doors, bowed terrace roofs, and satellite dishes clinging like barnacles to walls long surrendered to the sea air. It was the start of summer. And Worthbridge didn’t cope well in the summer. The kids were nearing the end of term with sports days and outdoor fetes. The pavements were full. Doors left open. Windows flung wide.

Which meant today there was more to burn.

“Report says smoke issuing from the second floor,” Miller called from the front. “Flat sixteen. Elderly female, possible mobility issues.”

“Understood.” Reece’s pulse climbed. This was the calm before the storm.

As they turned onto Woodrow Crescent, smoke curled up from the upper windows of a block of flats. Thick and black, spiralling as if it had a mind of its own, clawing its way into the sky. Residents spilled onto the pavement in dressing gowns and slippers, some barefoot, wide-eyed and shouting over each other, voices lost to the rising sirens.

The fire wasn’t only in the building. It was in the air. The tension. The waiting. And Worthbridge, however battered, brined, and barely holding together, might finally burn beyond saving.

Not on his watch.

“Morgan, you’re with me.” Miller pointed at him. “BA entry through the stairwell second floor.”

“Yes, boss!”

 “Steph! Grab the hydrant. Chris, set into the dry riser. You’re on the branch. Let’s move!”

They were at the door in seconds, full BA sets on, face masks sealed, comms checked.

“Ready on air.”

“BA Entry. Team Two, committed. Two in.”

They entered.

The stairwell was a tunnel of smoke where visibility dropped to a hand in front of the face. Heat licked Reece’s gear. Not enough to be dangerous but promising it would get there soon. So he and Miller climbed fast, avoiding the clutter on the landings. A collapsed clothes horse. A child’s plastic ride-on car. Some idiot had left rubbish bags in the corner again. They’d dealt with this block before.

“Flat sixteen,” Miller called through the comms.

Reece found the door and tensed. Smoke bled from the seams.

He braced himself, then drove his shoulder into the wood. Once. Twice. The second hit splintered it, the frame groaning as it gave and smoke rolled out in greasy curls, swallowing his boots. As his mask hissed with each breath, the regulator rhythm sharp in his ears, he flung up his torch, the beam cutting through the murk, and stepped inside. Heat pressed in and Reece swept right, eyes focused as he tracked movement through the shifting black.

Then Miller said, “Paramedics on scene.”

And Reece’s pulse spiked for a whole different reason.

“Tell them to hold at the cordon,” he called back, knowing full well one of them might attempt to break that safe zone.

So he turned back to the smoke. To what he could handle.

Heat rose fast as he crawled through the flat and found the tenant collapsed in the hallway, semi-conscious. Miller radioed for assistance, and they extracted her together, Reece cradling her head, easing her out over debris, while smoke curled tighter, hotter, pressing in like fingers around a throat. So they moved fast, down through the haze, feet thudding the stairwell.

Then there, at the base of the stairs, behind the safety tape, high-vis jacket half-zipped, was the very paramedic in question. Trent. In full greens, backlit by the rig’s blue lights. Reece’s mouth went dry. Not from the heat. But from him. Because in that look he gave, there was something unreadable at first. Recognition, maybe. Then softer. As if he’d hoped it might be Reece coming down those stairs. But it vanished. Replaced by the cold professionalism he wore like armour.

“Elderly female. Semi-conscious. Smoke inhalation.” Reece eased the woman into Trent’s waiting arms, careful, efficient, but the moment their hands met, the contact sparked hotter than the flames behind them.

Too long. Always too long.

And Reece felt it. Like he always did. Every damn time.

But Trent gave nothing away. Not a sliver of recognition. Or a glance lingering after it should. Only a maddening calm as he helped the woman onto the gurney. And right there, in the middle of smoke and sirens, Reece remembered exactly why playing the part of the cocky playboy was easier. Safer.

Better than this slow-burn purgatory Trent kept him locked in.

The woman groaned, coughing, and Trent kicked into action.

“We’ve got her.” Then to his crew, “Let’s go. Airway, O2, BP. I’ll ride in.”

Reece watched him a beat too long, caught in the quiet intensity of him. His steady hands. Careful touch. And that familiar furrow between his brows. And his hair. Unruly blond curls caught the light as if they held their own private blaze. Trent Lawson was a soft, golden fire, burning as bright as the one Reece had never quite put out.

Same as it always is.

Trent turned back to his patient, and reality yanked Reece back into line. Do the job. Put out fires, don’t start them. Especially not the ones roaring to life in his chest, and lower, every damn time he caught sight of a certain paramedic poured into figure-hugging greens. Sometimes he swore Trent did it on purpose. Moved just right, looked just wrong. Utterly off-limits and completely irresistible in the same breath. He didn’t even realise he was the walking definition of Reece’s worst idea… and his favourite temptation.

When the last of the flames died to steam and the thermal imaging confirmed nothing but smouldering heat signatures, Reece peeled off his BA set with a grunt. His shoulders were stiff and lungs raw from the heavy air. He should’ve headed for a bottle of water and a quiet corner to cool off, but his feet took him where they always did.

Towards him.

Despite Miller yelling at him. “Morgan! You’ve still got debrief and hose rolls. Stop eye fucking the greens!”

Reece flipped him off.

Trent was inside the ambulance, his greens stained and clinging in all the right places, sleeves shoved up to his elbows as he worked. His gloved hands moved steadily over the elderly woman’s fragile frame, checking vitals, adjusting the oxygen mask cradled to her face. For a man who’d spent the last half hour knee-deep in chaos, he still looked annoyingly perfect.

And fuckable.

Really fucking fuckable.

But it wasn’t just that…even if that’s all it would ever be.

Reece knocked on the edge of the back doors, then poked his head in. Trent’s spine snapped straight, pastel blue eyes holding far too much exhaustion and not enough relief. He kinda hated that look. Cause he knew what those blue eyes looked like when they were blown wide with something else entirely.

“She okay?” Reece asked, voice rougher than it should’ve been.

Yeah, he cared about the woman. Of course he did. But really, this was an excuse. One more moment. One more shot at breaking through whatever wall Trent had built between them.

“Hold the line a sec, Liv?” Trent spoke to his crewmate. Reece had met Liv on many occasions too, and she was checking the IV and adjusting the oxygen line. The woman was conscious, shallow gasps whispering beneath the mask. Stable enough for a moment. “Will give the report to fire. Then I’ll take the wheel.”

Liv nodded without looking up. “We’re good for a minute. Go on.”

Trent nodded then stepped to the ambulance’s open doors and jumped down, landing so close his head was practically level with Reece’s chest. A dangerous proximity. It was almost impossible for Reece not to want to drag him in. He was too damn tempting. All lean muscle and coiled tension, like a firecracker begging for a spark. Trouble with a capital T, packaged in the deceptive innocence of an angel.

Reece ached to taste every inch of him.

“Smoke inhalation,” Trent said. “Superficial burns on her hands and forearms. Probably trying to fight her way through the heat before she went down. Dehydrated. She’s lucky you got to her when you did.”

She’s lucky you’re the one looking after her.

“She’ll be alright, then, yeah?”

Trent snapped off his gloves with a sharp crack of latex. “We’re stabilising her now. She needs fluids and respiratory support, but we’ll have her ready for transfer to Worthbridge Burns. Liv’ll ride with her.”

Reece forced a nod, but the relief didn’t settle before the familiar hollow ache twisted under his ribs. He shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t want to ask. But Christ, this was always the problem with Trent. One look and every sensible thought went up in flames right along with the wreckage behind them. And Reece knew, deep down, it wasn’t entirely his fault.

“Trent…” His name left his lips before he could think better of it, boots crunching over broken glass and scorched debris to step closer.

Trent turned, half a step already towards the ambulance, attention locked on the patient. Anywhere but on him. Maybe it was the aftermath. Reece looked a fucking mess. He knew he did. The thick weight of his fire jacket hung open, unzipped, torched helmet dangling from his fingers, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, and his dark T-shirt clung to his chest, damp and streaked with soot. But Reece couldn’t help himself. He curled an ash-smeared glove around Trent’s arm, anyway.

“How long are we gonna keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

Reece stepped in closer, the acrid bite of smoke curling thick between them, heat still radiating off the twisted wreckage nearby. “Pretending we’re nothing…”

Trent swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes darting nervously towards the crews regrouping near the engines. And fuck, that glance cut deep. As if Reece was something to be hidden. A shame to be scrubbed off like grime after a hard shift.

“We’re at work, Reece.” Trent turned those beautiful blues back on him. “We’re on the same job, same emergency. That’s all this is. It’s not bloody serendipity. We’re colleagues.”

Reece lowered his voice, rasping into Trent’s ear. “Colleagues who fuck.”

Trent flinched as if the word physically hit him. He darted his gaze to the ambulance, to the woman clinging to life, then back to the crews.

Reece rolled his eyes. “What? You don’t want anyone to know you crawl to me in the dark to chase your nightmares away? That under all this smoke and sweat, you’re burning just as bad as I am?”

“Don’t.”

That one word hit harder than any punch Reece had ever taken in the station’s makeshift ring. Straight to the chest, clean through to the bone. Because he knew. Knew this was more than Trent would ever admit out loud. That the fire between them, lit months ago and burning hotter with every reckless encounter, wasn’t snuffing out anytime soon. He wasn’t imagining this. It wasn’t one-sided. It couldn’t be. Not with the way Trent came apart in his arms, not with the heat flaring every time they collided.

But right now…all he felt was ice.

Trent didn’t even have the common courtesy to look at him when he said, “It won’t happen again.”

Radios crackled faintly in the distance, the soft hiss of smouldering ruins bleeding into the charged silence, but it was how Trent stepped back, heading for the ambulance as if it was the only cover left in a battle he couldn’t bring himself to fight, that had Reece physically exhausted.

“You’re full of shit, Trent.”

Trent stopped, his back to him, dipping his head. Then, when he turned, there was no bravado left. Only a faint reveal of the man Reece only ever saw in the dead of night, when the world was quiet and the fight had drained out of them both.

“And you’re still looking for a hero in every fuck you take.”

Reece flinched, the words landing sharp, no room for misinterpretation. He opened his mouth, the comeback ready, wounded pride coiled like a spring, but Trent didn’t wait. He reached for the back doors and slammed them with a force that stole the air from Reece’s lungs, the finality of it cutting like a guillotine.

Then lights flashed. Siren wailed.

And Reece stood there, alone in the wreckage, ash on his tongue and regret burning thick in his throat. By the time the ambulance disappeared into the night, only one thing remained. That same truth, curling like smoke through the hollow of his chest.

Trent Lawson was still the only fire he couldn’t put out.

ORDER WORTH THE FIGHT

Want to know if it’s worth it?

Then here, read the first chapter of Worth the Wait (Worth It Book 1)…

OUT in KU, paperback and eBook on July 31st 2025

Chapter One

Clear and Present Danger

Worthbridge always looked prettier from a distance.

Up close, the cracks showed. Empty shopfronts. Kids with their hoods up and nowhere to be. The wrong vans pulling into the wrong lockups at the wrong time of night. And PC Freddie Webb had spent the last six months watching it get worse.

Taking a reluctant sip from his battered travel mug, he grimaced. “Jesus, that’s vile.” He screwed the lid on tight. Not that he was trying to preserve it, more contain the damage. It tasted like tar scraped off his boots after a rainy shift. “You trying to off me, Becks?”

Behind the wheel, PC Becca Lambert smirked. “Brewing anything drinkable with that urn’s like raising the Titanic with a teaspoon. Be grateful you’re still alive.”

“Pretty sure that kettle predates the Bronze Age.”

“Like Tony in Custody.”

“The one with the pager?”

“Vintage chic, mate.”

Freddie snorted and slouched lower in his seat. The patrol car hummed along Worthbridge’s narrow back lanes, tyres whispering over damp tarmac. The Sunday morning shift always brought a peculiar hush. Not quite peace, not quite quiet. It was the town catching its breath after a long Saturday night. This morning was no exception. The April sky hung low and sulking, a thick blanket of cloud turning the sea into a sheet of dull metal. April showers were getting ready to wash the town away while the gulls shrieked overhead, wheeling in lazy circles as if they had grievances to air. They shouldn’t. They’d already hoovered up the scraps from Saturday night’s takeaway benders.

The air smelt like brine, damp concrete and leftover chips.

And…home.

Yeah. It smelt like home.

Because for Freddie, this scruffy little Essex seaside town was home. The place that raised him, roughed him up, and, at least once, nearly choked the life out of him. Literally.

Stretching out his legs, he relished the lull. Mornings like this were rare. No drama yet. No one screaming down the phone about stolen bikes or domestics. Not even any drunken lads spoiling for a fight. The shops were only just stirring, shutters rattling up like yawns, and the pubs hadn’t rubbed their eyes open yet.

For a moment, it was the sea, wind, and the quiet hum of the car.

“How’s it going with the history teacher?” And Becca’s too personal questions.

That was the thing about sharing shifts with Becca. She came armed with shit tasting caffeine, boatloads of sarcasm, and an endless supply of personal questions. Prying ones. Ones that made him want to crank the window down and roll himself out onto the A-road.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Freddie tipped his head back with a groan. To buy time, he took another sip of the coffee, immediately regretted it, then leant out the open window to spit it out onto the tarmac.

“Oi!” Becca barked, eyes still on the road but tone filled with mock outrage. “That’s a criminal offense!”

Freddie fastened the lid shut on his travel mug. “The gulls’ll clean it up before you even dig out your ticket pad.”

She snorted. “Did you spit on the history teacher, too?”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly fascinated by the scuffed trim on the dash.

“Swallowed?”

He side-eyed her. “Christ, Becca. I know I ain’t your superior by rank, but can we roll with the pecking order, anyway?”

“You don’t like him then.”

“I do. He’s…sweet.”

“Knew it.” She grinned, triumphant. “You don’t like him.”

“I do like him,” Freddie said, far too quickly for Becca not to pick up the subtext. “I said he’s sweet.”

“Which is code word for boring.”

“No, it’s code word for—wait for it—sweet.”

“Then you’re clearly a diabetic.”

Freddie laughed, but it caught in his throat, and he turned back to the window, watching the gulls wheel over the flat grey sea, their cries piercing over the stillness of the morning. Jude was sweet. Polite. A bloke who remembered birthdays and opened doors and would make sure he drank water between pints.

Safe.

But that was the rub. Safe didn’t do it for him. Never held his interest long. Didn’t light him up or make his pulse jump. No. He always gravitated towards the messier options. The ones who bit back. Had shadows behind their smiles and chaos stitched into their bones. The ones who burned too bright and left scorch marks when they went.

The ones who were oh so very unattainable.

He stared out the window, the scent of salt and old chip fat curling through the crack in the glass. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble and forced a grin to cover the shift in his gut. But, as if right on cue, they passed the weatherbeaten pier, and he got the same old ghost of cider on his lips. An echo of a laugh tangled in the sea wind. And remembered when, for a heartbeat, life had been simpler. Lighter. When everything still felt fixable. By a crooked grin, a bottle passed between trembling hands, and a kiss that wasn’t sweet, wasn’t perfect, but lodged itself in him, anyway, rewriting the blueprint for every kiss that came after.

“It ain’t cause you’ve still got feelings for that Reece, is it?” Becca took her eyes off the road to deliver that punchline.

“The fireman?” Freddie laughed. “Nah. Not sure I ever had feelings for him. He was…”

A stop gap.

They were all stop gaps.

Distractions. Warm bodies and easy smiles. Stop-gaps between the job and the bits of his life he didn’t want to sit with for too long.

He was starting to think they’d all be that way. Temporary.

Sighing, he looked back out the window at a group of late teens carving lazy arcs across the promenade, wheels rattling over the cracked concrete of the skatepark. Hoodies up. Heads low. Same faces, same patterns. No harm in them. Yet.

Worthbridge had always had edges. None the tourists ever noticed. Cause, sure, it looked like bunting and postcards in summer, but when the sun went down? Different story. Uni students necking pints, fights outside chip shops, lads shouting karaoke until their voices cracked. Freddie knew the routine. Not only because he was the poor fucker who had to clear up most of those things, but he’d also been one of them once. Young, stupid, and three sheets to the wind under the pier with someone whose name he barely remembered. Those were reckless, golden nights. Sweetened by vodka and a cocky grin. But they’d left their mark too.

Irreversibly so.

Lately, though, Worthbridge had become dangerous.

He knew he probably shouldn’t be policing in his hometown. All the complications. The conflicts of interest. He’d listened to the warnings when he’d joined the force. And for a while, he earned his stripes with an extended stint in Southend, saw the other side of the patch. But Worthbridge needed him. His mum was here. His little sister. His niece. New baby nephew. He had to make sure this town was safe for them. He couldn’t trust anyone else to do that for him.

Which, yeah, he was well aware and had been told sounded cliché as fuck.

Maybe there was something deeper going on. A reason he’d stayed put all these years, wearing this uniform in the same streets he’d got drunk in as a teenager. But he didn’t like to over-analyse it.

Especially not on a bloody Sunday.

“You’re doing it again,” Becca cut through his thoughts.

Freddie arched a brow. “Doing what?”

“That constipated thinking face. Usually means the Radley case is crawling around in that brain of yours again.”

Freddie grunted, resting his elbow on the window ledge. He didn’t have to answer. They were both thinking about it.

Six months. That’s how long he’d been embedded on community detail, quietly feeding anything useful upstairs. Six months of tailing ghost vans and jotting down license plates leading nowhere. Six months of watching Whitmore Estate kids wander home with new trainers and older eyes.

Still nothing stuck.

Because Graham Radley was careful. Generous. Untouchable.

Everyone in Worthbridge knew the name. Radley Developments. Proud sponsor of the local sports teams, the Christmas lights, the bloody community day stage. Vivienne Radley chaired the town’s cultural committee. Their photo was still framed on the council website, cutting ribbons and shaking hands.

But Freddie had spent too long chasing ghosts to be dazzled by high-gloss charity work. The real Radley estate wasn’t made of bricks and ribbon-cuttings. It was made of silence.

The East Docks moved at night. Vans in by five, out by six. No names. No cargo manifests. No CCTV that couldn’t be explained away. Cash passed in corners. Girls from the estate disappearing for days, coming back quieter. Some didn’t come back at all. Drugs flooding the estates, but never in Radley hands. Always some teenage runner who “couldn’t say” where it came from.

And everyone was too bloody afraid to say the word out loud.

Trafficking .

Because saying it meant admitting it was real. That it wasn’t just happening in cities or headlines, but here, in Freddie’s hometown. In alleyways he used to ride past on his bike. Behind doors marked with Radley logos. In the silence between neighbours who knew better than to ask.

Becca had been there the night they pulled that girl from the van behind Whitmore garages, too. Seventeen, half-starved, wearing a men’s coat three sizes too big. She hadn’t said a word.

Radley’s name wasn’t on the van.

It never was.

“We’re running out of time,” Freddie said, more to himself than her.

Becca drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe. But Carrick wants more. Wants them caught in the act.”

“Yeah, well, while we sit on our hands, more kids get chewed up and spat out.”

Becca didn’t argue. There was nothing to say.

Freddie stared out at the low tide, the black slick of sand glittering like oil under the gulls. He thought about his niece, Tilly. Six years old. Fairy wings, glitter pens, boundless trust in the world. It made his stomach twist to think of what could happen to kids like her if they didn’t move fast enough.

A beat passed. Then, quieter, Becca asked, “You ever thought about going for the detective pathway?”

“Thought about it. Loads of times.”

“You’d walk it. You’ve got the instincts, and the way you read people? That’s half the job already.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s not just about instincts, though, is it? It’s all politics. Exams. More desk time than I can stomach. Then there’s the paperwork. Endless bloody forms and sitting in briefings where half the room couldn’t find their own arse with both hands.”

“You already sit in those. And I know you have no problem locating your arse, or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

“Ha fucking ha. But at least I get to chase down scrotes in the rain. Talk to people. Be on the ground. You go down the CID route, and suddenly you’re buried in case files and red tape.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t be bloody brilliant at it.”

Freddie was quiet for a moment. Then: “I don’t know. There’s something about being in uniform. Visible. There when something kicks off. When someone needs you. It feels real.”

“And personal.”

Yeah. It was.

Really fucking personal. This was his town.

Freddie glanced back at the skatepark. The teens had moved on, but the image lingered. Young, stupid, vulnerable. All it took was one of them getting in too deep. One bad choice. One promise of easy money. And that was the part he never talked about with any of his casual flings. Certainly not history teacher Jude. The man he’d been dating for a few weeks, whose conversations with remained surface level and flirtations ended with a goodnight kiss. He wouldn’t understand. The not knowing. The dread. The gut-deep fear of what might happen just out of reach. Or what could happen if he didn’t move fast enough.

“Quiet one today, though.” Becca tempted fate with that.

As if on cue, the radio crackled to life.

“Control to Delta Two One, report of a disturbance at the seafront skatepark. Multiple youths involved. Possible assault in progress.”

Freddie shot Becca a look.

She winced. “Yeah, I know, I jinxed it.”

He grabbed the radio mic. “Delta Two One—received. Show us en route.”

Becca swung the Astra around at the next junction, tyres crunching over loose gravel as she switched on the blues. The flashing lights tore through the sea mist, scattering a few lingering gulls.

“Better not be some kid pissing about with a scooter.” Becca tutted, already scanning the grey sprawl of the promenade.

Freddie stayed quiet.

Because his gut, the one that hadn’t let him down yet, said this wasn’t just a fight.

Not today.

Not with Radley’s shadows creeping closer to the kids who couldn’t defend themselves. And if he was right? Then whoever was about to get their name written up in Freddie’s notebook wasn’t only a teenage thug looking to score points.

They were a spark.

And the whole bloody town was soaked in petrol.

The skatepark hunched at the edge of the promenade like a broken tooth. Concrete bowls tagged with graffiti, bins overflowing, the air heavy with stale weed. Becca swung the car in hard, tyres squealing a warning. Freddie was out before it stopped fully, boots slamming onto cracked tarmac, scanning.

Movement. Voices. The distinct edge of a scuffle behind the far ramp.

He sprinted towards it, Becca on his heels.

Two lads legged it across the grass. Skinny, fast, and gone before Freddie could even get a shout out. Another kid remained on the ground, hands up over his head, trying to shield himself from the blows raining down from a feral teenager above him.

“Oi!” Freddie shouted, closing the gap.

The aggressor looked up, then ran.

Down the far side of the bowl, up the concrete bank, slipping on wet grit, and tearing off across the park in a jagged sprint.

Freddie launched after him.

“Whitmore foot chase,” he shouted into his radio. “Male, mid-teens, grey hoodie, black joggers. Heading east, towards the seawall.”

The wind tore past his ears as he pounded after the boy, closing the gap with every stride. The kid was fast, no question, but running scared, making mistakes. Cutting across open ground. Glancing back.

Freddie saw his moment.

He lunged forward, arms out, and tackled him. They both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and grit. The teen squirmed, kicked, thrashed like a cornered animal, but Freddie rolled with it, locked a forearm across his chest, got a knee into the small of his back.

“Stay down!” he barked.

The kid wriggled, shoving back hard, until he saw the uniform over his shoulder.

“Calm down. Now!” Freddie gripped the kid’s arm while pulling a set of cuffs free. “What’s your name?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“I said, name!”

The lad’s eyes snapped towards him. “They started it!”

“Started what?”

No answer except for a spit on the gravel.

Freddie hauled him up to his feet. “You have anything on you? Knife, blade, anything I need to be aware of?”

Knife incidents had crept up in towns like Worthbridge. They weren’t only city problems anymore. Gangs didn’t care if a place had bunting and ice cream vans in summer. They saw bored kids, no prospects, no one watching. Then moved in. Targeted the vulnerable. Offered cash and power in exchange for loyalty and silence.

And it worked.

Small towns were ripe for the picking.

Freddie had seen it too many times. How fast a schoolyard punch-up could turn into something you didn’t walk away from.

The boy stiffened, eyes darting sideways, then looked back at Freddie with a mix of fury and panic.

“They were—” He stopped. “Forget it.”

Freddie’s instincts buzzed. That wasn’t nothing.

And it sure as hell wasn’t over.

“You’re being detained under Section Five of the Public Order Act. Disturbing the peace and suspected assault. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…”

Freddie delivered the caution. Words he’d said a hundred times before. To youths as young as, if not younger than, the one in front of him. But as he spoke, he watched the boy’s face change. Not in fear. Not in guilt. But… harden. As if he’d slipped a mask on.

Then Freddie caught his eyes.

Angry. Rabid. Almost feral.

But blue. Deep and startling, a bright clash with the shadow of his dark hair, damp and curling beneath the edge of his hoodie. Freddie jolted. He’d seen eyes like those before. And it twisted in his memory bank like a faulty bulb refusing to switch fully on. He shoved it down to do his job.

Before walking him back to the car, Freddie gave the standard instruction. “I’m going to search you now under Section One of PACE. Anything sharp I need to know about?”

The boy said nothing.

So he patted the kid down, checking pockets, waistband, shoes. Nothing. No weapons, no phone, no sign of drugs. Just a skate tool and a scrap of paper with a half-smudged number on it.

He shoved it all into a clear evidence bag, more for process than concern.

Then, as they made their way to the car, the kid muttered under his breath, “Should’ve let me finish it. Would’ve done you a fucking favour.”

Freddie glanced sideways but didn’t bite. “Yeah? How so?”

Kid clammed up again. Probably wise.

Becca joined them, wiping her hands on a tissue. “Other kid’s banged up but conscious. Says he doesn’t want to press charges.”

“Doesn’t mean we don’t log it,” Freddie said. “Get his name?”

“Yeah. He’s known to us. Low-level stuff. Shoplifting, pushing boundaries, usual teenage crap. The two that fled are the interesting ones.” Becca returned to Freddie’s side. “This one, though,” she tilted her head towards the cuffed teen, “new face.”

The kid glared at her.

“Proper lost his rag. Other kid reckons he flipped.”

Freddie tightened his grip on the lad’s arm. “You might have picked a fight with the wrong people.”

“Couldn’t give a fuck who they are!” the lad shouted over his shoulder.

Across the park, the other teen held up two fingers to his mouth, waggling his tongue between them. Real mature.

Freddie felt the tension roll through the cuffed boy and prepared for him to launch a counterattack. “Oi. That’s not gonna help anyone.”

He opened the back door and guided the lad into the car. The kid didn’t resist, but he vibrated with fury. Shoulders tight, breath shallow. Controlled chaos. The usual shit. Freddie slid into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and watched him through it.

“You gonna tell me your name?”

Nothing.

Freddie turned halfway, resting one arm on the seat. “Right. Listen. If you’re under eighteen and you refuse to ID yourself, we’ll have to bring in Social and a responsible adult to sit with you at the station. And until we know who you are, we can’t let you go. That’s the law.”

Lad clearly thought he could stare his way out of this.

“I’ve got all day, mate.” Freddie widened his eyes. “You?”

Still nothing.

Freddie clucked his tongue, turning back to face the road. The kid didn’t look scared. He looked braced. As if whatever was waiting for him at the end of this was worse than anything he or the station could offer. That was the part that got to Freddie. The silence screaming louder than any teenage bollocking. He knew that look. Had seen it too many times before in kids dragged in from rough homes, from estates run by gangs, from families where trust was a foreign language.

But something about the shape of the lad’s jaw, the stubborn tilt of his chin…it snagged on Freddie’s memory.

“Control’ll love us bringing in a no-name on a Sunday.” Becca got back into the passenger side.

Freddie drove.

Something told him this wouldn’t be another quick tick-box caution and release. Because despite Becca’s best efforts to build a rapport with the lad on their way to the station, he remained mute. So when they arrived, Freddie guided him out of the car, through the secure doors, nodding to the sergeant behind the desk. Becca followed, filling in the details on the tablet, already ticking boxes and logging the time of arrival.

“Male, mid-to-late teens,” she said. “Brought in under Section five, suspected common assault and disturbing the peace. No ID given.”

Mick, the custody sergeant built like a wardrobe with the patience of a saint, arched a brow. “No name, huh?”

“He’s not talking.” Freddie stepped back.

Mick leant on the counter. “Alright, son. One last chance. What’s your name?”

The boy stared dead ahead. Not angry. Blank. Silent.

Mick sighed and gestured to the back. “Cell Two. He’s under eighteen by the look of him, so I’ll get Youth Services in. Can one of you pull a photo from school records or Missing Persons, see if we can get an ID?”

Becca nodded, already scrolling through the tablet.

Freddie lingered for a second, a tug at the back of his mind not letting him move on. But eventually, he turned and headed back out into the corridor. Statements needed taking. Paperwork needed drowning in.

Which he did for the next hour and was halfway through writing up the incident report when the door creaked open, and DS Bowen stuck her head in.

“Webb. Interview room two. We’ve ID’d the lad from this morning. Minor. His appropriate adult’s arrived. You were the arresting officer, so I want you in there.”

Freddie rubbed his eyes, groaning inwardly. “Alright. Gimme a sec to log off.” He closed the report mid-sentence and stood, stretching the knot out of his shoulders. “Is he talking yet?”

Bowen shook her head. “Not a peep. Maybe having you in there’ll jog something loose. Name’s Alfie Carter.”

Freddie froze. The name snagged in his brain like a thorn catching in cloth.

“Alfie Carter?”

The words echoed, meaningless at first. Until something clicked. A long-forgotten connection tugging at the edges of memory. It made little sense. Couldn’t be. But the feeling had already settled deep in his gut, crawling under his skin.

He followed Bowen down the corridor, the world narrowing to the tunnel of strip lights and the hollow hum of the station. The distant voices faded. Even his own breath felt far away.

They approached Interview Room Two, and Bowen reached for the door. But before they went in, Freddie peered in through the reinforced glass.

Fuck.

There was no other word for it, and it slammed through his skull with the force of a dropped weight.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His heart kicked hard, each beat thudding out those curse words in synch. Because sitting in that room, to the left of the boy he’d arrested, was Nathan Carter.

Freddie hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Fifteen years, give or take, since everything had collapsed. Since promises had cracked beneath the pressure of real life, fear, and timing that was never quite right. And yet, in one glance, it was as if no time had passed at all.

Nathan’s lighter hair was cropped shorter now, almost a buzz cut. Or growing out of one. His shoulders broader. Still built as though he carried the weight of everyone else before his own. That same posture. Tight. Guarded. Composed. He hadn’t changed. But there was a shift now. A break in the armour. And as he sat hunched, bouncing one leg beneath the table, hands clenched in his lap, he looked worried.

No, scared.

The crack in Freddie’s chest, the one he’d papered over with work and quick fucks, split wide open as if it hadn’t ever healed.

Bowen paused at the threshold, nudging the door with her shoulder. “You coming in?”

Freddie didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. His body felt like stone, held together by instinct and uniform alone. For a second, he wasn’t a copper. Wasn’t anything. Just a man standing outside a room that had cracked open a past he wasn’t ready to face.

Then Nathan looked up.

Fifteen years of silence shattered in that glance…

After a subscriber poll, the brand new cover for my brand new series is here…

Love runs deep in the town where the tide never truly washes anything away…

Welcome to Worthbridge, a windswept coastal town in southern England where the sea’s never still, the past clings like salt on skin, and second chances are as rare as sunny days in February.

In this emotionally charged MM romance series, men scarred by love, loss, and life find themselves drawn back to the town they thought they’d left behind, or trapped in it, with nowhere else to go. Each book follows a new pairing, weaving together gritty real-life stakes with slow-burn chemistry, found family, and deep-rooted bonds that refuse to fade.

Whether it’s a brooding ex-army single dad haunted by regret, a local police sergeant hiding feelings he’s sworn to bury, a charming fireman desperate to outrun his own reputation, a guarded paramedic convinced love isn’t meant for him, a runaway teacher trying to outpace his past, or a stoic lifeboat volunteer clinging to the wreckage of old wounds, every love story in Worthbridge is a risk worth taking.

Full of British small-town grit, aching romance, and a cast of recurring characters you’ll grow to love, Worth the Risk is about the kind of love that doesn’t just heal, it anchors you home.

Drum roll for the reveal of book 1…

Worth the Wait is a second-chance, small-town MM romance brimming with found family, unresolved history, and smouldering tension between two men who never got their closure. Think broken boys, ex-army grit and police uniforms that leave nothing to the imagination , all building to a slow-burn that finally, gloriously, explodes.

Coming to Kindles on 31 July 2025!

It was never over. It was just waiting.

Nathan Cole didn’t return to Worthbridge looking for a second chance. He came back for a roof over his head, a job that pays, and maybe, if he’s lucky, a way to connect with the teenage son he’s barely known. Life in the army taught him how to survive, but not how to be a father… and definitely not how to live with the choices he made the day he walked away from everything. Including Freddie Webb.

PC Freddie Webb never left Worthbridge. Not the town. Not the ghosts. Steady, dependable, the man everyone trusts to hold the line when things fall apart, he’s spent years keeping his head down and his heart locked up tight. But all that control shatters the moment a routine arrest throws him face to face with the boy he once loved… and the son that boy now has.

What started between them as teenagers was messy, intense, and unforgettable. Sixteen years later, it’s no less complicated. Eespecially with Alfie, Nathan’s angry, guarded son, caught between them and already spiralling toward trouble.

As old desires resurface and old wounds reopen, Nathan and Freddie are pulled back into each other’s orbit. But with the whole town watching, tensions rising, and the past refusing to stay buried, they’ll have to decide: play it safe… or risk everything for the love they never got to finish.

Because in Worthbridge, the past never stays buried.

And some loves are worth every second of the wait.

PREORDER NOW!

With the release of Killing Me Softly, the To Love a Psycho series is officially complete. Three books. One dark, twisted, devastating, and deeply romantic journey. I’ve lived and breathed these characters for years, and as I close the final chapter, I wanted to reflect on what this series has meant. Not just as the writer, but as someone who poured their heart into every word.

A Love Story Told in Shadows

From the very beginning, this series has asked difficult questions: What does it mean to love someone you shouldn’t? Can broken people build something beautiful? And how far are we willing to go for the ones who truly see us?

To Love a Psycho isn’t your typical love story—it’s obsessive, complicated, and laced with danger. But at its heart, it’s always been about two people finding each other in the dark. That never changed.

Writing the Line Between Romance and Ruin

This series walks the tightrope between romantic suspense and psychological thriller. Each book dives deeper into obsession, identity, and the murky waters of morality. Writing it has meant exploring trauma, desire, grief, and healing. Sometimes all in the same scene.

And yet, for all the murder and mind games, the heart of the story has always been love. Messy love. Secret love. Love that doesn’t always play by the rules.

Characters Who Refused to Let Me Go

What began as a single idea soon became a world I couldn’t stop writing. These characters challenged me, broke me, healed me. They kept showing up in my head long after I’d stepped away from the keyboard. And now, with Killing Me Softly, their story comes to a close in a way that feels exactly as intense and intimate as it always needed to be.

To Readers Who Love the Dark

If you’ve been on this ride with me, thank you. Whether you read one book or all three, whether you fell for the characters or wanted to scream at them (or both), I wrote this series for you. For readers who love their romance raw, their thrillers gripping, and their emotions unfiltered.

The To Love a Psycho series is complete. But its heartbeat still echoes.
All three books are available now, so if you’re ready to binge, then step into the dark, I promise you won’t be alone.

KISS ME HONEY HONEY is OUT NOW!

The forbidden tension? Unbearable.
The kisses? Possibly fatal.
The romance? So dark, it might just destroy them.

He’s the son of two serial killers.
He’s the criminal psychologist who helped catch them, and now he’s his professor.
They shouldn’t touch.
They definitely shouldn’t kiss.
But obsession doesn’t play by the rules.

Book 2 in the darkly addictive To Love a Psycho trilogy is here.
And trust me… it’s hotter, deadlier, and more unhinged than ever.

If you love:
MM romantic suspense
Dark academia & forbidden love
Twisted psychology & spicy tension
Murder, mystery… and mouth-on-mouth danger

Then this book is for you.

KISS ME HONEY HONEY — Available Now
https://mybook.to/Kissmehoneypsycho2

Exclusive Excerpt

Aaron’s psyche bore scars of complex developmental trauma. Patterns of attachment disruption, parental betrayal, and early exposure to emotional and psychological harm that shaped his worldview. Such profound early wounds resulted in distorted core beliefs. Deep-seated convictions about self-worth, safety, and trust affected all his relationships and interactions, consciously or unconsciously. Therapy wasn’t just about curing Aaron; it was a long-term strategy to help him learn to self-regulate, to reframe, and eventually to trust.

So yes, Aaron needed to keep coming. Not because there was a simple solution, but because the path to healing was long, iterative, and essential. But that was the psychologist in him.

The selfish man in him just wanted to keep seeing him.

Alone.

Like this.

Kenny parked, lifting the handbrake and as Aaron moved to open the door, Kenny reached out, grabbing his arm before he could slip away. “Wait. I’m sorry.”

Aaron paused, hand still on the door handle, turning back to him. “For what?”

Kenny searched for words that felt wholly inadequate. “A lot of things,” he said, voice strained. “Let’s start with barging in on you and your boyfriend.”

“What else?”

Kenny swallowed hard, heart pounding at having to utter the truth. “For being jealous.”

Aaron settled back in the seat. “How was your holiday?”

“It wasn’t a holiday. It was a conference.”

“In Greece. By the beach. Where they had a heatwave.”

“And I spent much of it inside the University of Crete. So in that respect, it was shit.”

Aaron snorted. “Got a nice tan, though.”

Kenny drifted over Aaron’s features, recommitting each detail to memory and checking if the dreams he’d had of him while lounging beachside or locked in a hotel room had been right. They had. He was still infuriatingly stunning. “And you changed your hair.”

“Back to natural.”

“I like it.”

Aaron dropped his head back, heavy-lidded gaze drawing Kenny in until his restraint felt like a thin thread, fraying and snapping. “Didn’t do it for you.”

Kenny ran out of things to say. Because there wasn’t anything he could say to make this any easier. For either of them. They couldn’t happen. For more reasons than being professor and student. Their shared history was muddy and devastating. They would rip each other apart. Yet somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to sever their connection completely.

Aaron reached for Kenny’s hand, interlocking their fingers. Then, after a moment of stillness, he lifted their combined hands to plant a delicate kiss to the back of Kenny’s, pinching the fine hairs between his lips and Kenny could have wept.

More so when Aaron said, “I can’t do this, doc. It’s too hard.”

Kenny dipped over the middle of the car to drag his free hand through Aaron’s hair, down to the back of his neck, and drew him close enough that he could taste the vape flavouring on Aaron’s breath. Peach. “I know.”

A silence settled over the car, neither rushing to fill it.

Then, stark and fragile, Aaron said, “Kiss me.”

God, Kenny wanted to. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone more in his entire life. But how could he? How could he open all that up again when they’d worked so hard to bury it? When he knew his career would be in jeopardy. And how Aaron would consume him completely, take his fill, before eventually tiring of him and leave. There was more than age and authority against them.

So he choked. “I can’t, baby.” The endearment slipped out, and he dug his fingers into Aaron’s neck to prove how desperately he wanted to do what he plead and how cruel it was he couldn’t. Because the moment he did, Aaron would destroy him. “You know I can’t.”

Dream a Little Dream (Book 1), Kiss Me Honey Honey (Book 2), and Killing Me Softly (Book 3)

Discover the series* & learn full details here: https://bit.ly/CFWToLoveaPsychoSeries

Opportunities Available:

ARC: Read & Review

Release Day SM Blitz

Blog Tour

Release Boost

Pick one or choose all—your choice! I’d love to invite you to join us as we celebrate the already available DREAM A LITTLE DREAM and prepare for the upcoming releases of KISS ME HONEY HONEY (March 31, 2025) and KILLING ME SOFTLY (April 21, 2025).

This series is for you if you enjoy:

» Mxrder Mystery

» Psychological Thriller

» Age gap & mutual obsession

» A deadly game of cat and mouse

» Steamy encounters & unbearable tension

» An unhinged twink with a sharp tongue

» Precious, soul-soothing moments

» More chaos & mind games than you’re ready for

*Please note: The trilogy must be read in order. The plot and romantic arc continue throughout the entire series. Aaron & Kenny’s relationship is anything but easy. Their journey is filled with rocky moments, mistrust, and vulnerability, because the stakes are sky-high for both. Amid the darkness, you’ll find heart-pounding moments of connection, hard-fought love, and, yes, a well-earned HEA (eventually).

What readers are currently saying…

“Wow! I’m blown away by this gripping, dark, twisted, and intense psychological thriller. C.F. White is a master of suspense, and she brings her A-game with this new series. This is the true crime/serial killer x MM romance mashup you didn’t know you needed!”

“I loved this book so much.”

“I-need-the-next-book-right-fucking-now. I don’t even know what to do with myself now…”

“Let me take a moment to breathe because WOW this book ATE.”

“Kenny and Aaron are explosive together. The blistering tension ramps up as Aaron pushes Kenny’s buttons, either sexually, emotionally, or mentally.”

“How this story unfolds will blow your mind. It’s dark, hurtful, intelligent, with mutual obsession, a psychological thriller, and immensely intriguing. The characters aren’t just there, they are deeply layered.”

SIGN UP HERE: https://bit.ly/CFWToLoveaPsychoSeries

I am so super psyched to let this fly off into the world. A labour of love for quite some years…it’s finally grown wings and off it pops onto Amazon shelves TODAY!

It was a difficult decision whether to release this under C F White or create a whole new pen name as it is slightly darker than my usual. I mean, it features serial killers, obsessed and morally grey characters and a fair bit of angst, push and pull. And people say to STAY IN YOUR LANE. But at the heart, it is a C F White book. The characters feel real. The setting is wholly British (albeit a fictional town), it features elements of what I know (as in its set in academia, features a character who had to navigate the care system and endured unimaginable trauma as a child and is now trying to fight his way out of the hole he was born in through education).

So, yeah, it’s a C F White book but it’s not hearts and flowers and fluff. I’d urge you to be prepared for that.

Ans it is the start of a brand new serial. Three books. A hard fought HEA. A ton of angst and problems to over come. Along with a nice little murder mystery to solve each book. If you are familiar with my work, then you all know how long it really took Micky and Dan, Jay and Seb and Jackson and Fletcher to get their happy ending. These two fight a little more along the way, but they get there. And trust me, it’s worth it!

Aaron Jones

“Those piercing blue eyes hid so many sins Kenny wanted to dive right in and commit the cardinal. Aaron Jones was going to ruin him.” 

“Aaron broke my heart – the things he’s endured, because of who his parents are, is devastating. I empathized with him so much, and the pain and rejection he feels had me teary eyed.” — Goodreads Reviewer, Five Stars 

Dr Kenneth (Kenny) Lyons

“Kenny was exquisite. Every inch of him. Masculine and mature. Mysterious yet unguarded. Aaron’s heart leapt. Foolishly.” 

“Kenny’s position, age, career, and all the other outside factors prevent him from truly embracing his need for Aaron. The craving. The obsession. I loved seeing him slowly becoming obsessed with Aaron and how that obsession built up throughout the story. — Goodreads Reviewer, Five Stars 

Influences

It’s no secret that I’m a mood writer… as in I need to create the atmosphere to get into the mood of the book/characters I’m writing. I’ve always made playlists which help when I’m out and about to keep me in the story. This one was no exception. Although, the more I got into the music, the more I realised it was becoming part of the book itself. Especially the title tune Dream a Little Dream Of Me. I hear Aaron’s mother singing this and it’s quite chilling when you think of it like that.

So the music became a heavy influence. Each book and each chapter title is that of a song I hear when I was in that particular scene. Some of it chilling, some of it slightly creepy, some of it heartfelt and steamy. Each book has its own playlist, and here’s the first one.

If you love dark MM romance with obsessive tension, murder mysteries, and a forbidden spark ready to explode—this is for you!

What to expect:
Age gap & mutual obsession
A deadly game of cat and mouse
Steamy encounters & unbearable tension
An unhinged twink with a sharp tongue
Precious, soul-soothing moments
More chaos & mind games than you’re ready for

Available now on Amazon Kindle Unlimited, e-book, paperback & hardback!

Go on, grab your copy here, you know you want to!
https://mybook.to/DreamPsycho1