Book Title: Irish Charm (Flying into Love #3)
Author and Publisher: C F White
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin (KAM Design)
Release Date: November 28, 2022
Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance
Tropes: Hurt/Comfort, Opposites Attract
Themes: Second Chance, Forced Proximity
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 64 250 words/260 pages
It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.
Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited
Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK
Can a bit of Irish charm rescue an injured soldier from his wrenching heartache?
Blurb
Injured ex-soldier, Kane Taylor, has lost everything—the job he loves, the use of his trigger hand, and the love of his life. Moving to remote Donegal in Ireland to fix those lost links with his deceased partner’s ancestors is the only thing keeping his memories alive.
Publican Declan McCafferty has everything—a job he loves, a community he adores and a revolving door of lovers. But when he sets eyes on the new sexy, brooding regular customer at his pub staring solemnly into his Guinness night after night, Declan realises he needs one more thing—him.
Kane isn’t ready to give himself to another man, but the charismatic and charming publican is hard to resist. Can a fling be such a bad thing?
It is when Declan discovers Kane is the only man in his life he’s not willing to let go.
Irish Charm (Flying into Love #3) is a contemporary hurt/comfort, opposites attract, second chance MM romance featuring an ex-military alpha male recovering from heartache and a cheeky Irish publican allergic to commitment.
Kane was drunk.
So very drunk.
But so very happy.
He’d lost count of how many pints he’d downed, as every time he’d finish a glass, another one had been put in his hand. Mixed it all with whisky, and Kane couldn’t see straight. Well, he could. He could see clearly. As though the mist and fog had faded, and he was there. Right there. Alive. And not weighed down by the shadows of himself that he’d been living with for the past four years.
The reason for that swayed beside him singing in beautiful Irish tones—Declan McCafferty.
Closing time hit, and Declan and his staff herded everyone out like sheep dogs would the flock. The band packed down while the bar staff cleared up and Kane sat on a bar stool, head spinning, body weightless, warmth running through him as though he were sliding into the hydrotherapy pool back at the hospital. Eventually, the dust settled on an empty pub, with Ciara the last to leave, waving goodbye. Kane waved back, limbs feeling as though they belonged to someone else.
Declan messed around behind the bar, doing whatever needed doing to get the place tucked up for the night, and Kane spun to watch him, resting his chin in his hand as he gazed up with a lopsided smile.
“Howaya doing there, soldier?” Declan asked, slamming the till drawer shut.
“I’m doing good.” Kane inhaled, breathing in the euphoria of his words. “Real good.”
Declan lifted the hatch, scooting around to stand in front of him, searching his gaze. “Wee bit of the black stuff works miracles, aye?”
Whilst that might have been true, the drink might have contributed to how he was feeling right then, he couldn’t credit it as only that. That would be doing a disservice to the man stood so close to him he could breathe him in. And, God, he wanted to. He wanted nothing more than to inhale the therapeutic scent of Guinness meshed with salty, sweaty skin.
He twisted on the stool, legs wide around Declan, smile fading into sincerity.
“No,” he said, voice low and deep and filled with heartfelt candour. “No, it’s you.” He slid a finger into Declan’s belt loop and wrenched him forward.
Declan tumbled, falling between his legs, brash grin falling away to allow for his quickening breaths. And, oh, dear God, he was gorgeous. Gazing down at him with longing and uncertainty, parting lips enticingly edible. Kane couldn’t deny himself the chance to sample him. To taste the freedom of his exoneration. So he grabbed Declan’s shirt in a balled fist, tugged him down and met his gaze. He held it for longer than he had anyone else’s, pouring his hopes and dreams into him. Declan gazed back, green eyes wild. For him. For Kane.
God, yes.
“Kane—”
Kane cut Declan off with a kiss—a melting, heart-shattering, toe-curling kiss that had his head spinning and chest on fire. He refused to let go of Declan’s shirt, holding him where he was, lips on lips, humming and delving deeper, coaxing Declan’s mouth open with his tongue. He tasted of Guinness. Of honeyed whisky. Of sweet desire.
Declan pulled away, forehead resting on Kane’s. “Jesus,” he panted. “That’s—”
Kane didn’t let him finish. He couldn’t. He needed more. Now. He stood, taking a wide-eyed Declan up with him, and splayed a hand behind his head, stealing another kiss that had his mouth watering. Now he’d started, there wasn’t any chance he could stop. Not when it felt this good. Tasted this good. Shook him this good.
Declan curled an arm around him, a delightful moan emanating from his throat to vibrate those luscious lips that chased his down as if they would leave. They wouldn’t. How could they? How could anyone not want a McCafferty kiss?
Kane stepped forward, kissing him so hard that Declan stumbled back to hit the bar. He had to unwrap his arms from Kane, sliding his elbows on the surface, glasses tumbling off to shatter on the floor. Kane devoured him. Couldn’t get enough of him. Dipped him so far back over the varnished wooden surface that his head hit the taps. Kane still refused to let him go.
“Hey, soldier,” Declan groaned out between kisses. “I’m gonna snap, here.”
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly search for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.
Eventually she moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
After her second son was born with a rare disability, C F White’s life changed and it brought pen back to and paper after having written stories as a child but never had the confidence to show them to the world. Now, having embarked on this writing journey, C F White can’t stop.
So strap in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
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