4 Star Review for Three Strikes by Anya Richards – #MM #Police @anyarwrites


Title: Three Strikes
Author Name: Anya Richards
Publication Date & Length: January 1, 2015 – 150 pgs


Two lonely men. One secret affair. Irresistible passion that will push them both to the breaking point, and beyond.

A knife attack left ex-Jamaican Posse member Vincent Williams scarred and also made him re-evaluate his life. He’s out of the gang and also the closet but lonely, yet to meet a man who’s interested in more than a one-and-done, a brief sexual encounter.

Because of his career as a police officer, Sergeant Kyle Pictou is afraid of coming out. Normally he doesn’t get involved with anyone close to home, but something about Vincent compels him to take a chance. It’s just sex, after all. Yet, as desire evolves into friendship and seemingly boundless passion, it’s Kyle who’s left wanting more—though he knows he can’t have it.

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This book is manly. I’ve been searching for a word to describe it. Masculine men living adult lives, full of thoughtfulness, rich histories, and complicated situations. And hard muscles. The sex, plentiful but not overwhelming in this erotic novel, reflects this well.
This book is multicultural. Appropriately so, for once. Black Jamacian Vincent Williams and First Nations Canadian Kyle Pictou are fully realized characters, rooted in their sometimes clashing cultures, as well as deeply Canadian. This book should serve as a model for how to write diversity. It’s neither pandering nor stereotypical.
This book is an excellent length. I only bring it up because I harp on other books for being too long, and for not showing an editor’s touch. This book is stylish and enjoyable to read. Anya Richards, with her 22 books, and my second review, knows what she’s doing. Here’s hoping she’ll keep writing men for us.
C.E. Case


Purchase from GRU Publishing


Both his hands are under my shirt, pushing at it, and I lean forward so he can pull it up. We break the kiss just long enough for Vincent to get the shirt off over my head, then he’s kissing me again, his hands on my chest, easing me back into the corner of the couch. Soon I have one leg stretched out on the cushions, the other foot still on the floor, and Vincent crouched between my spread thighs, leaning over me. He’s not rushing, his kisses deep but still slow. Urgency rises in me, and I shove my hands under his shirt in turn, digging my fingers into his muscles, trying to pull him closer. He’s braced his hands on the arm of the sofa, and I can’t budge him. Lifting his head, he smiles, but his eyes have that heavy-lidded look I recognize.

“Take your time,” he says, then sings in a deep, mellow voice, “Take your time, take your time, take your time. No need to hurry.

I want to ask him what song that is, but while he was singing he’d shifted down, so the last note comes out right against my left nipple. And now he’s sucking and nibbling at it, and I can’t think about anything else but his mouth on my body.

Each nipple gets his undivided attention. Then he licks, with long, slow swipes, over my entire stomach, until I think one more touch will make me spontaneously combust. Just when I believe he’ll finally move south, give me some relief, he slides his entire torso against mine, until our faces are aligned.

“Want to take this upstairs, Sarg, or should I go on, and risk both of us falling off the sofa?”

If I thought I had the strength I’d throw him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and take him up to the bedroom myself, but all I can manage is to growl, “Upstairs.”

Vincent nods, but doesn’t move, hesitating for a moment. Then he seems to come to a decision, his gaze searching mine as he says, “I want you…”

I shiver. I know what he’s saying, asking. Most men assume I’m a top, probably because of my demeanor, and I usually end up being just that. But I have no problem with the thought of Vincent topping me. In fact, just imagining it makes another jolt of heat fire out through my veins.

“You know I won’t say no.” How could he not know that, when I’m already putty in his hands? “I told you that earlier. Consensual, remember?”

His smile makes my heart stutter. “Just making sure.”

Then he levers himself upright and off the couch, and holds out his hand to give me a boost. I take his hand and he tugs.

Why does it feel like he’s pulling me into something, rather than just up?


After living a checkered past, and despite an avowed disinterest in domesticity, multi-published author Anya Richards settled in Ontario, Canada, with husband, kids and two cats who plot world domination, one food bowl at a time. Having trained the humans around her to recognize the ‘Do Not Disturb’ vibes she gives off when writing, she’s still trying to get the cats to honor her need for space. The suspicion is that they perfectly understand, but choose those moments when she’s most engrossed to once more prove who wears the pants in the house.


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