Contractually Yours
MM Contemporary Romance
by Jace Wilder
Free with Kindle Unlimited
Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Escort/Client, Contract Romance, Fake Dating, D/s Dynamic, Praise Kink, Touch Starved, Grumpy/Sunshine, Competence Kink, Power Exchange, He Falls First
He hired a companion. He got a confession in twelve-point Times New Roman.
Julian Mercer is a corporate lawyer who controls everything—his career, his apartment, his emotions. When his senior partner tells him that showing up to firm events alone is costing him the partnership, Julian does what he does best: he solves the problem with a contract. A twelve-page, meticulously drafted agreement hiring a high-end escort to play his devoted boyfriend. Terms defined. Boundaries set. Feelings prohibited.
Luca Reyes is the escort who doesn’t play by the rules. Perceptive, warm, and dangerously good at reading people, Luca signs Julian’s contract expecting a standard arrangement—perform the relationship, collect the check, move on. But Julian’s meticulous control cracks every time Luca touches him, and the contract keeps growing: an exclusivity clause driven by jealousy, an overnight amendment drafted at 2 AM in a bed that smells like someone else, forty-seven pages of love letters disguised as legal language.
As the clauses multiply, the boundaries dissolve. Julian’s controlled instructions in bed give way to desperate, unscripted need. Luca’s professional performance gives way to something terrifyingly real. And the contract—the document that was supposed to keep this manageable—becomes a chronicle of two men falling in love while pretending they’re doing something else.
You’ll love this book if you enjoy:
✅ Escort/client arrangement that becomes devastatingly real
✅ A control-obsessed lawyer who writes love letters in legal language
✅ Contract clauses as foreplay (literally)
✅ Instruction-based sex that unravels into raw, emotional need
✅ “There you are” — the moment the mask falls off and he wants the real version
✅ Forty-seven pages of amendments that are actually a love letter
✅ Scorching heat (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotional)
✅ HEA guaranteed
⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes), strong language, escort/sex work themes, and emotional vulnerability. Intended for readers 18+.
📖 Read Chapter One Free
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Chapter One: The Problem
The wine was a 2018 Barolo, which meant Harris was trying to impress someone. He only broke out the Italian reds when there were clients at the table worth more than the firm’s quarterly billings, and tonight the dining room at Eleven Madison was stacked with them—hedge fund managers, a real estate developer whose name appeared on four Manhattan buildings, and the kind of quietly wealthy people who never introduced themselves by what they did because they didn’t have to.
I sat at the end of the table with a glass I’d barely touched and a smile I’d been maintaining for two hours. I was good at the smile. It suggested warmth without inviting conversation, interest without availability. I’d practiced it the way I practiced closing arguments—in the mirror, adjusting until the delivery was flawless.
“Julian.” Harris leaned toward me, his voice carrying the particular warmth he reserved for moments when he was about to say something cutting. Robert Harris, founding partner, sixty-three years old, and the only man alive who could make my name sound like a performance review. “Where’s your plus-one tonight?”
“I came alone.”
“You always come alone.”
“I find I’m better company for clients without distractions.”
Harris picked up his wine, swirled it, and looked at me over the rim the way he looked at opposing counsel before eviscerating their argument. “You know what clients see when they look at a man who’s always alone, Julian?”
I waited. Harris loved a rhetorical setup.
“They see a man with nothing to lose.” He took a slow sip. “And a man with nothing to lose makes people nervous. Unpredictable. No roots, no stability, no stake in anything beyond the billable hour.” He set the glass down. “You’re up for partner this year. You know that. I want you to make partner. But the vote isn’t just about your case record. It’s about the whole package. And right now, your package has a very conspicuous gap.”
“My personal life has no bearing on my legal work.”
“Everything has bearing on everything. That’s the first thing I taught you.” He nodded toward the other end of the table, where Davidson—three years my junior, half my trial record—sat with his wife, a pediatric surgeon who laughed at all the right moments and touched Davidson’s arm with the kind of casual intimacy that telegraphed settled, stable, safe. “Davidson’s wife has had dinner with the Chengs four times. Mrs. Cheng sends her Christmas cards. That’s not a marriage, Julian. That’s a client retention strategy.”
“You’re suggesting I acquire a spouse for professional advancement.”
“I’m suggesting you show up to the next firm event with someone who makes you look like a human being and not a very expensive robot.” He clapped me on the shoulder, the gesture landing somewhere between paternal and threatening. “You’re the best litigator I’ve ever trained. Don’t let them pass you over because you can’t figure out how to have dinner with another person.”
He moved on. Worked the table. Left me sitting with a full glass of Barolo and the particular sensation I got when someone identified a weakness I thought I’d concealed.
I finished the wine. It was excellent. I hated that I noticed.
My apartment occupied the thirty-second floor of a building on the Upper West Side that I’d chosen for three reasons: proximity to the firm, soundproofing between units, and the fact that the lobby staff never attempted conversation beyond Good evening, Mr. Mercer.
I unlocked the door at 11:47 PM. Hung my coat in the closet—second hook from the left, always. Set my keys in the tray on the console table. Checked that the thermostat read sixty-eight degrees, which it did, because it always did, because I’d programmed it and machines didn’t disappoint.
The apartment looked the way it always looked. Gray linen sofa, positioned exactly six inches from the wall. Kitchen island, empty except for a single bowl of green apples I replaced every Sunday. Bookshelves organized by practice area, then alphabetically by author. Bedroom visible through the half-open door—bed made with hospital corners, two pillows, one used, one decorative, though I’d never understood what a pillow was supposed to decorate.
I poured two fingers of Macallan, sat at the island, and did what I always did when confronted with a problem: I analyzed it.
Harris wasn’t wrong. I could dismiss his advice as old-guard politics, but the data supported his position. The last four partners elevated at the firm had all been in visible, stable relationships. Not because the partnership committee explicitly required it—that would be actionable—but because the optics mattered. A partner was a face of the firm. Faces needed context.
The problem wasn’t attraction. I was attracted to men. Specifically and frequently. The problem was that attraction, for me, lived in a space I couldn’t access without structure. Without rules. Without knowing exactly where the walls were so I could decide how close to stand.
I was not, despite Harris’s assessment, a robot. I was a man who’d learned very early that unregulated emotion was the most destructive force in human relationships, and I’d built my entire life around containment.
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Amendment 49 — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon
Six months after the contract ended, Julian makes partner. Luca curates his first solo show. And in the office where forty-seven pages of love letters were drafted, Julian discovers that his desk has uses he never anticipated—and Luca discovers that the instruction voice works just as well without a clause behind it.
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