Reviews for Elle Keaton

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André’s evening reading was interrupted by a banging against his front door. The hammering was loud, purposeful, and, in André’s opinion, full of false promise. He briefly contemplated not answering. The reverberation alone told him who was on the other side.

He had a choice to make.

For fuck’s sake, the thundering knock hadn’t even startled him.

Damn.

Annoyed, he set his mystery novel—a British cozy he’d been half paying attention to while listening to the rain pound against the roof—face down on the arm of the couch and rose to his feet. Traitorous anticipation bloomed slowly, languorously, alongside the growing exasperation in the pit of his stomach, rising like the steam from a freshly brewed cup of tea.

“Dear, I know you’re in there. Answer the fucking door. It’s pissing down out here.”

Wasn’t forty-five too old for a booty call? Was it a booty call when the ass in question showed up unannounced and, well, uncalled?

André didn’t have time to answer any of that in the short distance between his couch and the front door. Reaching out, he flipped the lock open and then twisted the handle, his hand shaking slightly.

This would be the last time.

Seconds later, André was slammed back against the living room wall, his hands automatically slipping under Dante’s leather jacket and cotton t-shirt, his fingertips sliding against Dante’s chilled, damp, skin. Dante murmured something and then his mouth was on André’s, claiming him as he always did.

Always. But never forever.

Within minutes, they were mostly naked and stumbling into André’s bedroom. A trail of clothing was strewn behind them, much like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs so they could find their way back out of the wicked forest.

André felt his personal forest was much more complicated than Hansel and Gretel’s, but he’d finally found a way out of it.

This was the last time they were doing this.

At least this time, they made it to the bed and hadn’t just ended up on the couch like so many nights before. Falling onto the mattress, André had landed on his back and currently was gazing down his body, watching an equally naked Dante press his nose into André’s crotch. He liked it.

God, he liked it.

His cock did too. His cock was a fan of everything Dante. But it needed to stop. It had to. A relationship that consisted of late-night knocks on the door (followed up by the best sex André had ever experienced) and an empty spot next to him in the morning was not what he wanted.

The sex was incredible but what happened afterward made him intensely lonely.

As ridiculous as it was for a man of his age and profession—a U.S. Marshal, for godsakes—André wanted a partner. A real partner.

Dante Castone, an undercover operator for the DEA, was not the man for the job.

He wanted someone who’d stand by his side through good and bad times and vice versa. Dante was not that man. No matter how fucking incredible his lips felt as they closed around André’s cock.

“Jesus,” André groaned, arching his back.

Since a partner didn’t seem to be in the cards for André at this late stage in the game, he’d decided to settle for a job that wasn’t actively trying to kill him. He wanted to head into his twilight years like a cop on The Andy Griffith Show or Mayberry R.F.D., giving advice to innocent kids and chatting with senior citizens who would end up having the answer to everything.

“You’re distracted tonight,” Dante rumbled as he let André’s cock slip from between his lips so he could begin licking his way up André’s body. He was heading toward André’s neck, which seemed to be a favorite place of his.

“Don’t leave marks,” André complained, his hips jerking as Dante nibbled on a sensitive nipple. “I don’t want to have to explain anything to my coworkers.”

“So many rules. You know I love breaking rules.”

Dante did love breaking rules—André’s rules, at any rate.

“Quit thinking so hard.” Dante punctuated his demand by biting and then sucking hard on André’s nipple, tracing around the nub with his hot tongue.

“Fuck.” André’s cock throbbed with anticipation of what was to come—himself and Dante—and he writhed desperately underneath Dante’s pleasantly heavy, muscular body, needing more contact, more of everything.

Reclaimed Hearts Series

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