RELEASE BLITZ: “French Kiss” by C F White.
RELEASE BLITZ
Book Title: French Kiss
(Flying into Love #1)
Author and Publisher: C F
White
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin
KAM Design
Release Date: May 30,
2022
Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance
Tropes: Opposites Attract, Instalust, Age Gap, Forced Proximity
Themes: Coming out, Found Family
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 58 000 words/232
pages
It is a standalone story and
does not end on a cliffhanger.
This is the first in a new series
of standalone novels. The second book is due out in June.
Buy Links –
Available in Kindle Unlimited
Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK
Can a French kiss persuade
an uptight Englishman to leave his city behind and start a new life in rural
France?
Blurb
Clean-cut London businessman Dale Calverley doesn’t do
relationships.
Rugged French handyman Valentin Aubrey doesn’t do city
men.
When Dale hires Valentin to help him fix up his inherited
farmhouse estate in rural France and sell to the highest bidder, sparks fly.
Complete opposites, can they really expect their insta-lust
to last beyond the storm that forces them together?
But how can Dale walk away from a man so alluringly rogue
as Valentin Aubrey?
And how can Valentin expect a man so money-orientated to
throw away his career and stay in the wilderness with him?
French Kiss (Flying into Love #1) is a
Contemporary, Age-Gap, Hurt/Comfort, Forced Proximity MM Romance featuring an uptight
English businessman with a preference for nameless hook ups and a rugged half-French
handyman with a chequered past.
Excerpt
Stomach knotting, roiling, fluttering, Dale laid eyes on
Valentin, axe held high over his head then swinging down to slice through chopped wood
balancing on a tree stump. If that wasn’t the most spectacular thing Dale had ever seen in
his entire life, he had no idea what was. He held his breath, lurking on the periphery and
willing himself not to be seen. He wanted to watch. He wanted to gaze on that sight without
fear. He wanted nothing more than to stare as though it was a show just for him.
Valentin threw a chopped log onto a pile, wiping the sweat
from brow with his plaid shirt sleeve and smearing mud across his face. He then set another
on the stump and swung the axe. Voracious hunger surged through Dale as Valentin grunted,
thrashing the blade down into the log. It was so barbaric. So feral. So wild Dale had to inhale
a tantric breath. Flustered and ravenous, Dale lost all rational thought. He hadn’t seen
anything like it before and his cock throbbed, unveiling his voyeuristic side and exposing him
to his type.
He stared.
And stared.
And stared.
Valentin stopped, then undid his shirt, wriggling it down his
arms to drop to the ground, luscious, tanned torso now on display with those Angel-wing
tattoos for Dale to feast upon. If Dale thought his heart had been pounding before, it then
tripled pace. Valentin was so ripped. So defined. So masculine, and every outline of strength
and sinew on his back, his chest, his stomach, his decorated arms as he lifted the axe and
yielded it to cut through solid timber, had Dale’s pulse racing.
Dale’s throat dried as animalistic desire raged through him,
inflating both want and need. His dick stiff and rigid, demanding to see for itself, Dale could
do nothing but stand and stare.
Valentin glanced up, maybe sensing he was being watched.
Was that a hunting instinct? He blinked, a cloudy rush of breath billowing from his lips as he
exhaled into the mist. God, he was so savage. So rugged and raw. Dale should move. He
should shake himself out and move. He should make up some utter bullshit of why he was
standing there that wasn’t salivating over him chopping logs. He should pretend he’d heard
something. He should, at the very least, stop staring.
But what he wanted to do was take Valentin by the neck
and kiss him.
Valentin threw the axe to the ground, grabbing his shirt and
sliding it on as he jogged toward him. “Dale,” he said, breath light and airy, so unlike the
atmosphere between them, laden with desperation.
Dale couldn’t speak. All words caught in his throat at the
sight, at the scent, at the scorching skin exposed on Valentin’s chest that Dale
wanted—needed—to touch. He’d never felt anything like this. Ever. It was so all-consuming.
Mesmerising. Bewitching. It was so beyond any rationality and reason that Dale couldn’t
comprehend what was happening to him.
“Dale?” Valentin searched him. “Are you okay?”
Dale forced himself to nod, breathing out a deep and
rumbling, “Mmm, hmm.”
“Sorry if I woke you. There’s a storm heading for us. Needed
wood for the fire. It might pass us, but it’s worth stocking up the fuel while we can.”
Dale inhaled. All he could smell was Valentin. His sweat. His
musk. His beard. Dale never wanted to breath in anything else again.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Valentin frowned, then without
a hint of warning he placed a palm to Dale’s forehead, his touch sending shockwaves
sparking through him.
Dale gripped Valentin’s wrist, digging fingertips into him,
holding his hand where it was. “Valentin.”
Valentin held his gaze. “Dale,” he breathed out. “I don’t
want to make the same mistake twice.”
Dale dropped his arm to his side but refused to let go of
Valentin’s wrist.
“Don’t make me.” Valentin’s voice was soft, shaky, filled
with fear and worry yet had an undeniable growl of want. As though he was struggling to
control himself. He trembled, glancing to their locked hands as he uttered with caution, “Je
te veux.”
About the Author
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.
Author Links
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