dentical twins London and Lennon Tyler have always lived as mirror images--one a fearless race car driver, the other a quietly brilliant chef. Their secret talent? Switching places whenever life demands it. It's always been harmless…until one switch ends in tragedy.

One twin wakes in a hospital bed with no memory.

Roman is a gamer-nerd 🎮 with ADHD trying to get out from under the weight of a family legacy.

Tech-savvy 💻 Jacob has always known who he is and what he wants...and f*CK... He definitely wants Roman!

“Boo, let’s take a trip to the toy store! We could get matching D,” she says then gasps. “No scratch that, tattoos, we need new tattoos"

Covert Games is a contemporary MM romance.

Now available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CW1N15VY

#terickablack #contemporary #mmromance #secretromance #forbiddenromance #agegap #workplace

This one’s about Jake — a rich kid with hazel eyes and a magnetic pull I couldn’t resist.

I met him through my mentee at a house party in the fanciest part of the city, the kind of place that smells like imported candles and generational wealth. His apartment was sleek and spacious, practically begging for trouble, full of people whose confidence came with trust funds.

His friends were textbook bourgeois. I’d met rich kids before — I was the scholarship girl at a private school, remember — but this was a new level of money. These people weren’t just rich; they were born into power and carried it like designer luggage. The men wore their privilege like a family crest, and the women looked airbrushed into existence: glossy, slim, and eerily identical.

I felt like Jenny Humphrey when her dad married Lily. What in the Gossip Girl was I doing here?

Luckily, my Scorpio rising has never failed me. I had dark, cutting eyes and a tongue sharp enough to slice through small talk. My education taught me how to blend in — how to mimic their rhythm, their smug ease. So I played the part: laughed at their jokes, volleyed their sarcasm, and made them believe I was one of them. Inside, I was thinking, this is a game — and I’ve already won.

Jake, though, was maddeningly aloof. He didn’t flirt, didn’t even give me a second glance in public, like he had an image to maintain. Still, the tension buzzed under my skin. By the time we reached the party, I was vibrating with it, ready to set something — anything — on fire.

Half a bottle of Montbazillac later, I wandered into the kitchen for water. That’s when I felt him behind me — that heavy, charged silence men have when they’re trying not to seem obsessed.

I turned, and there he was: those ridiculous hazel eyes locked on me.

I started to walk away, but he leaned in, voice low. “Can I kiss you?”

I laughed, mostly to break the tension. “Don’t you want to?” he murmured.

Oh, I wanted to.

We made out right there, then stumbled into his room, where we had the kind of sex that makes you believe in soul contracts and bad decisions.

That night became a week, then months. Every time he was in town, we’d meet. It was raw, wordless, and dangerously easy. We didn’t need to talk — language would’ve only ruined it. It was chemistry, physics, and poor impulse control.

But you can feel the but coming, can’t you?

One summer night, I was out at a bar when my phone rang. Jake. He never called — ever. We’d been doing this for over a year, and it was strictly text-based lust. So when his name lit up my screen, I knew something was off.

He sounded groggy, paranoid. “What’s wrong?” I asked. He laughed. “Damn, how’d you know?” Then, “Can I come meet you?”

Curious — and mildly alarmed — I said yes.

He showed up looking like he’d seen a ghost. “You know me as Jake,” he said slowly. “That’s my name… but it’s not the full story.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What are you, CIA or something?”

He smirked. “Yeah. Actually. Good guess. And tonight, I think I blew my cover.”

I waited for him to laugh. He didn’t.

Apparently, he was CIA — and had just botched an assignment. He said he needed to lay low, that I was detached enough, smart enough. He just wanted to be with me, in my arms, until his head stopped spinning.

So there I was, walking home beside a man who might have been a spy, wondering if this was a fever dream 007 movie or just foreplay.

At his place, he started spilling details I’ll never repeat (not because I’m noble — because I enjoy freedom than you very much). Then, in the moonlight, I saw him check a gun before sliding into bed beside me.

He trembled. I held him. Somewhere between pity and disbelief, I thought, Huh. So this is what “mysterious” looks like in real life.

I lay awake, listening to his breathing slow. Guns aren’t exactly standard décor in Europe unless you’re in law enforcement — or deep in something darker. The whole thing felt like a scene from a smut novel gone terribly wrong.

And that was the last time I saw him.

He vanished as quietly as he’d entered my life, leaving me with a night full of secrets, a lingering scent of cologne, and a story no one sane would ever believe.