Write Me Up

MM College Romance
by Jace Wilder

Available at all major retailers

Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Bi-Awakening, Brat Taming, Praise Kink, Secret Hookups, College Romance

The resident assistant in charge of keeping his dorm under control has one recurring problem: the gorgeous troublemaker who makes every rule feel negotiable.

Nolan Mercer runs the tightest floor in Whitmore Hall. No noise violations. No unauthorized guests. No exceptions. He took the RA job because it gave him structure and control — two things he’s needed since he was twelve years old and learned to manage his mother’s chaos by managing everything else.

Cade Rivers is cocky, chaotic, and infuriatingly hot. He treats dorm policy like a suggestion and Nolan’s authority like foreplay. Every write-up ends with that smirk. Every warning gets filed under make him say it again.

When a disciplinary meeting goes sideways — and then vertical, against a wall — Nolan makes the worst decision of his RA career: a private arrangement. Rules. Punishments. Rewards. All off the record.

The problem is, Cade follows orders beautifully. And Nolan’s starting to give ones that have nothing to do with dorm policy.

One of them is going to break the rules for good. The other is going to break first.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Enemies-to-lovers with a power dynamic that combusts
✅ Brat taming with praise kink and belt restraint
✅ Bi-awakening done right — messy, real, no labels required
✅ Dual POV with sharp humor and devastating vulnerability
✅ Explicit heat that escalates from stairwell kisses to full scenes (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️)
✅ A hero who learns that control isn’t safety and a love interest who learns he’s worth staying for
✅ HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes including praise kink, light restraint, and brat taming dynamics), strong language, depictions of parental emotional neglect, and references to parental addiction/recovery. Intended for readers 18+.

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Chapter One: First Write-Up

The bass hits me before I round the corner.

It’s deep enough to rattle the fire extinguisher case at the end of the hall — a low, insistent thud that vibrates through the linoleum and up through the soles of my sneakers like a second heartbeat. I check my phone. 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes before quiet hours, which means whoever is responsible for this is technically not in violation yet, but we both know where this is headed.

I know whose room it is before I get to the door. The same way I know my own schedule, my floor plan, the exact number of incident reports I’ve filed this semester (fourteen). I know because Room 312 has been a recurring problem since move-in day, and the name on the housing roster reads like a warning label I should have taken more seriously.

Cade Rivers. Sophomore. Undeclared.

Undeclared. Even his major is a middle finger.

The hallway is mostly clear — a couple of students from 3 West glance at me as I pass, registering the clipboard under my arm and the expression on my face, and decide they have somewhere else to be. Smart. My floor knows what this walk looks like. Measured steps. Straight posture. The particular jaw set that one of my residents described to another as “the face he makes before he ruins your night.” I overheard that in the kitchen last month. I didn’t correct them.

I stop outside 312 and listen. Bass. Laughter. At least a dozen voices overlapping. Someone shrieks — delighted, not distressed — and a glass clinks against something hard. The door isn’t fully closed. It’s cracked about two inches, and through the gap I can see a slice of the scene inside: bodies, low light, the unmistakable amber glint of a liquor bottle catching the desk lamp.

I knock three times. Firm, even, official. The music doesn’t stop, but the laughter dips. I hear someone mutter “shit” and then a voice — his voice, lazy and warm and completely unconcerned — says, “It’s open.”

I push the door wide.

The room looks like a frat party compressed into a space designed for two people and their textbooks. Fifteen bodies, at least — sitting on beds, perched on desks, crammed onto the floor with their backs against the mini fridge. The Bluetooth speaker on the windowsill is rattling hard enough to walk itself toward the edge. There’s a handle of Smirnoff barely concealed behind a backpack near the closet, two open cans of White Claw on the desk, and a stack of red Solo cups that someone apparently thought were subtle.

And in the center of it, leaning against the far wall with a cup in his hand and his hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, is Cade Rivers.

He sees me and does the thing he always does — the thing that makes every interaction with him feel like trying to enforce traffic laws during a car chase. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t scramble to hide the cup. He meets my eyes, and his mouth pulls into a grin so sharp and easy it could cut the tension in half if I let it.

I don’t let it.

“Everyone out.” I say it once. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. The clipboard and the lanyard do most of the work, and the rest is handled by the fact that I’ve been doing this long enough to know that authority is quieter than people expect. Loud is negotiable. Calm is not.

The room empties in under a minute. Students file past me with varying degrees of guilt on their faces — a few mumble apologies, one girl tries to explain that she was “just leaving anyway,” a guy I recognize from the third-floor study group avoids my eyes entirely. I note faces. I’ll cross-reference with the guest policy later.

Cade doesn’t move.

The speaker is still going — some lo-fi hip-hop track that would be perfectly appropriate at a normal volume in a room that wasn’t currently a crime scene. I cross the room, press the power button, and the silence that follows is immediate and absolute. The room feels twice as large without the noise.

“You going to stand there, or do you want to sit down?” he asks, like he’s the host and I’m the one who showed up uninvited.

“I’m going to stand here and write an incident report,” I say. I pull the form from under the clipboard. “You’re going to answer the questions on it.”

He lifts his cup in a mock toast. “Can I finish my drink first?”

“You can pour it out.”

He holds my gaze for a beat — two, three — then tips the cup upside down over his trash can. Whatever’s in it splashes against the plastic liner. He sets the empty cup on his desk with a precision that feels deliberate, like he’s placing a chess piece.

“Happy?”

“Thrilled.”

I pull the desk chair out and sit. It’s the only clear surface in the room that isn’t a bed, and I’m not sitting on his bed. I uncap my pen and start the form. Date, time, room number, nature of violation. The bureaucratic rhythm of it settles something in my chest — the same way making my bed at 6 AM does, or reorganizing my desk drawer when I can’t sleep. Structure isn’t a personality flaw. It’s a survival strategy.

Cade drops onto the edge of his bed across from me, legs spread, elbows on his knees. He’s wearing a black hoodie that’s a size too big, ripped jeans, and the kind of worn-in Converse that cost more than they look like they should. His dark hair is shoved back from his face but falling forward again, curling at his temples in a way that suggests he either doesn’t own a comb or doesn’t believe in them. The silver hoop in his left ear catches the lamplight.

I keep my eyes on the form. “How many guests were in this room tonight?”

“Depends. Are you counting me?”

“You live here.”

“Just making sure you know that.”

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Celebration — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon

Cade’s poem gets published. Nolan buys candles. The belt comes out. What follows is the filthiest, most tender reward scene in the series — candlelight, leather, and the word yours repeated until it stops being a word and starts being a vow.

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