Straight Roommate Clause

MM Contemporary Romance
by Jace Wilder

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Roommates to Lovers, Bi Awakening, Forced Proximity, Praise Kink, Age Gap, First Times, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Touch Starved, He Falls First

The rules said no feelings. The rules were wrong.

A burned-out ER nurse takes in a cocky ex-college athlete as a roommate. The banter is instant. The chemistry is undeniable. And when the younger guy admits he’s curious about men, they draft a tongue-in-cheek “roommate clause” with rules for experimenting—no feelings, no drama, total honesty.

Liam Hart doesn’t do reckless. He doesn’t take in strangers with big grins and bigger problems. He definitely doesn’t fall for straight guys who cook shirtless and fall asleep on his shoulder during movies. But Nico Reyes isn’t a stranger for long—he’s the man who leaves sticky notes on the fridge and holds Liam’s hand in the dark and says show me in a voice that takes Liam apart at the seams.

Nico Reyes doesn’t do feelings. He doesn’t question his sexuality over a roommate’s forearms. He definitely doesn’t write a handwritten contract giving his male roommate permission to take him apart—and then beg for more. But the clause was supposed to be a safe experiment, and the experiment was supposed to end, and instead it’s become the most honest thing he’s ever done.

The no-kissing rule was supposed to protect them. The praise kink was supposed to be manageable. The “not boyfriends” clause was supposed to mean something. None of it survived first contact with the truth: this was never an experiment. It was a love story wearing a legal pad as a disguise.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Roommates-to-lovers with a handwritten hookup contract
✅ Bi awakening with a “straight” guy who melts under praise
✅ Age-gap MM romance (25/32) with gentle dom energy
✅ Slow burn that EXPLODES (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotional)
✅ First-time MM scenes with detailed praise and aftercare
✅ Domestic intimacy, 3 AM kitchen conversations, sticky notes
✅ A hero who learns to stop performing and start living
✅ HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes including praise kink, gentle D/s dynamics, first-time anal, and oral sex), strong language, depictions of medical trauma and burnout, a bi-awakening identity crisis, references to a past emotionally neglectful relationship, and one panic attack. Intended for readers 18+.

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Chapter One

The kid was sixteen, and he was dying on my table.

Not dramatically, not the way it happens in movies where someone flatlines and a doctor yells clear and everybody looks devastated under the fluorescent lights. No. This was the real version—the boring, technical, repetitive version where a teenager who’d eaten a handful of his mom’s Klonopin was losing his airway, and I was the one with the laryngoscope in my hand, tilting his jaw while Dr. Osei called out sats from behind me.

“Eighty-two. Seventy-nine.”

I found the cords on the first pass. Tube slid in clean. I inflated the cuff, connected the bag, squeezed twice, and watched his chest rise.

“Ninety-one. Ninety-four.”

“Placement confirmed,” I said. My voice was flat. Professional. The voice of a man who’d intubated more throats than he could count and felt exactly nothing while he did it, because feeling things during a code was a luxury ER nurses couldn’t afford.

In the next bay, a guy who’d put his fist through a bar window was screaming about how he was going to sue somebody. Two beds down, a woman was crying because her four-year-old had a fever of 103 and she’d been waiting three hours. Somewhere behind the nurses’ station, an alarm was going off that nobody was responding to because there was nobody left to respond.

Tuesday night in a Level I trauma center. Just another twelve hours of keeping people alive in a building that was slowly killing me.

I stayed with the kid until respiratory took over ventilation and the ICU team arrived to transport. Wrote my notes. Cleaned the bay. Restocked the intubation tray because nobody else ever restocked the goddamn intubation tray. Checked on the screaming bar-window guy, who’d gone quiet now that the lidocaine was working. Told the mom with the feverish four-year-old that her daughter was going to be fine, that kids spike fevers like it’s a competitive sport, and that the Tylenol was already bringing it down.

She grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you. You’re so kind.”

I smiled at her. It felt like putting on a costume.

My car smelled like stale coffee and hand sanitizer. I sat in the parking garage with the engine off for eleven minutes—I know because I watched the clock on the dashboard tick forward while I tried to convince my body to drive home.

This was the part they didn’t warn you about in nursing school. Not the blood, not the death, not the sixteen-year-old kids who swallowed pills because the world was too loud and too sharp and too much. What they didn’t mention was the after—the sitting-in-your-car part, the staring-at-the-steering-wheel part, the part where you saved a life an hour ago and now you can’t figure out whether to pick up food or just go to bed hungry.

Ten years. I’d been doing this for ten years. And somewhere around year eight, the math had stopped working.

The apartment was dark and quiet, which was how it always was now. I needed a roommate. I opened my phone and posted a listing before I could overthink it.

By morning, I had fourteen messages. Most were disasters. Then, number fourteen:

Hey—saw your listing. I’m 25, bartender, mostly work nights so our schedules should sync up pretty well. Clean, employed, no pets, no drama. I’ve been crashing on my buddy’s couch for a week and his place smells like feet so I’m highly motivated. I do my own dishes, and I make a mean breakfast burrito. When can I see the place?

I read it twice. Then a third time, because something about it made me almost smile. I sent him the address before I could talk myself out of it.

At 3:58 PM, someone knocked on my door. Three confident raps. I checked the peephole. The guy on the other side was tall. Broad. Dark hair pushed back. He was holding a grocery bag and grinning at the peephole like he knew I was looking.

I was not going to survive this.

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