Thank you to Erika and Jenn for the amazing feedback and beta reading. Takk Marianne for nit-picking the finer details. Elouise for picking up the pieces when things got messy, and Aurelia for the perfect cover.
Sophia Soames should be old enough to know better but has barely grown up. She has been known to fangirl over TV-shows, has fallen in and out of love with more popstars than she dares to remember, and has a ridiculously high-flying (un-)glamourous real-life job.
Her longsuffering husband just laughs at her antics. Their children are feral. The Au Pair just sighs.
She lives in a creaky old house in rural London, although her heart is still in Scandinavia.
Discovering that the stories in her head make sense when written down has been part of the most hilarious midlife crisis ever, and she hopes it may long continue.
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Sophia Soames’ Little Harbour
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Aurelia Morris is a cover artist, photographer, photoshop wiz and eternal fangirl. She works in many mediums under more aliases that she can keep track of.
717 miles
717 miles Christmas
The Scandinavian Comfort Series
Little Harbour
Open Water
Baking Battles
In this Bed of Snowflakes we Lie
What if it all goes right?
The Naked Cleaner
The Chistleworth series
Custard and Kisses (Free on Prolific Works)
Ship of Fools
This thing with Charlie
The Clouds Hotel Series (Coming soon)
Short stories
Honest (Free on Prolific Works)
Ship of Fools
Sample Chapter
Andreas Mitchell is single, stupid and bored, and should honestly have a good long think about the amount of bad life choices he has made lately. Instead he heads straight for the one guy he knows will become his worst mistake yet.
Luca Germano makes no choices at all, instead he lives quietly in the background, and prefers the safety of his own hand to risking his heart. And someone as pretty and fearless as Andreas Mitchell, is the last person on earth he should let into his life.
Especially at Christmas.
This is a work of fantasy and fiction. This story contains descriptions of sexual roleplay and consensual violence, and elements of mild BDSM, which are not intended to be taken seriously, or imitate real life. Please read with caution if these themes might trigger or upset you.
Andreas
There are big showy snowflakes falling from the sky, which makes this evening feel frankly bizarre. It hardly ever snows in England. Well, almost never, despite what the Hollywood films try to sell. Winter in England is usually wet, dark and miserable, but tonight the town of Chistleworth is covered in a thick layer of magical, sparkling white fluff. The view from where I am standing almost looks like an old-fashioned postcard, the streetlights casting a pretty glow over the silently falling snow.
It’s bizarre alright, the magical Christmas scene developing in front of me, accompanied by the heavy breathing from the bloke thrusting against me as I shiver in my thin shirt. The air is freezing, my clothes are wet and his ice-cold fingers are annoyingly twisting my already erect nipples, making me hiss a little under my breath.
“You like that, do you?” he grunts as his body shoves me hard against the stone wall in front of us. I can just about see the cityscape over the top of it as my chest gets pressed against sharp edges that are no doubt scratching marks into my skin. There’s another shove and his hand tugs at my hair, just the way I asked him to. I can’t even remember if we exchanged names, but it doesn’t matter as he grinds against me, making me moan out loud.
“You can be rougher than that, mate,” I stutter out as cold air hits my back, and for a second, the pressure is off as he tugs my jeans down over my hips, kicking my feet to the side before shoving me back against the wall. The brute force, and the weight of him crushing my dick against the chiselled stone, is filling my chest with hopeful anticipation.
“Rough, eh? You won’t need lube then?” he cackles in my ear with an edge in his voice that is starting to grind on me. His cock is already pushing against my crack, awkwardly trying to find my entrance as the guy takes another deep drag of the cigarette still dangling from his lips. The smell is intoxicating, adding to my fantasy that is already laced with that addictive hint of danger.
“You need a map or something?” I hiss out, getting antsy with his clumsiness.
“Fucking keep still then,” he grunts, his hands freezing cold against my skin. The whole thing is starting to feel off. Wrong. Stupid even as his dick, once again, misses the target and slides up along my back.
“You’ve got something on, haven’t you?” I continue, turning my head, which is a little fuzzy with it all. The drinks, the cigarette we just shared, the high of the idea in my head that we’re playing out and, of course, the fact that the guy is now pressing his cock inside of me, lube-free and, hopefully, condom clad. Because right now can’t remember what I actually told him, nor what he said in return. The drag inside of me feels condom-like enough, so I relax and try to enjoy that delicious burn on my insides.
He’s big. Rough. Doesn’t care who I am or what I want, apart from that he liked the idea of fucking me, and I liked the idea of him just taking me there, in the back alley behind the club with nothing more than a shirt covering my skin and my dick being scraped raw against the brickwork. He’s also not going easy on me, his big hands holding me in place as my feet slide around in the slush on the ground, my own hands hurting from trying to hold myself up against the wall.
The falling snowflakes are pretty though, and the snow on the rooftops is even prettier as I find myself… bored. Again. I’ve got a massive cock giving me exactly what I asked for, and I’m standing here trying to catch a snowflake on my tongue. There’s a big one that lands on my nose, which makes me laugh—a small distracted giggle dancing in the still air.
“You like that, you little slut, don’t you? Fucking letting anything up that tight hole of yours?”
I do. He’s right about that. I like it, and I should like it even more when his hand comes up around my face, forcing me to lean back into him as he spits the cigarette out and tries to kiss me.
“No fucking kissing,” I pant out.
“Fucking tease.” His voice is in my ear, his fingers digging into my mouth. “You gonna come from this? Getting railed like a whore in a back alley?”
I’m not a whore. And I suddenly don’t like his voice, or the shit he’s churning out. I didn’t ask for that.
“Just get off.” I try to speak, but he’s got tar-tasting fingers jammed in my mouth as he shoves me back against the wall, slamming into me with more force than I’m comfortable with. My dick is getting scraped, my hands are hurting and his breath bloody reeks of stale beer and cheap cigarettes.