Bi Appointment Only

A Steamy MM Bi-Awakening Romance
by Jace Wilder

Available at all major retailers

Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Bi-Awakening, Barber/Client, Age Gap, Praise Kink, Touch Starved, Service Intimacy, Control/Surrender, Class Difference

The shave ends when he removes the towel. The wanting never does.

Leander Shaw schedules everything. Board meetings. Workouts. Family obligations. Even the exact number of minutes he can spare for a haircut. Then he books the last appointment every Friday at Bellamy House.

Nico Bellamy is younger, tattooed, and far too perceptive. He knows Leander doesn’t keep returning for the expensive shave. He returns for the warm towels, the fingers in his hair, and the quiet command to close his eyes and relax.

When Leander finally admits he wants more, Nico gives him one rule: Ask as a man. Not as a customer.

One kiss becomes a four-week arrangement. The arrangement becomes locked doors, jealous confessions, and a barber chair neither of them will ever look at the same way.

Leander is ready to admit what he wants. But Nico won’t be a luxury service Leander enjoys only when his carefully controlled life allows it.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Bi-awakening with a man who discovers himself at 42
✅ Barber/client tension that starts in the chair and ends upstairs
✅ Praise kink that hits harder than any touch
✅ Age gap with an experienced younger man guiding a powerful older one
✅ “Tell me what you want” energy (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotional)
✅ A touch-starved hero who learns that care isn’t weakness
✅ HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes), strong language, themes of professional power dynamics, and depictions of touch starvation and emotional isolation. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

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Chapter One: Seven Thirty

The worst part wasn’t wanting it.

The worst part was counting. Eight Fridays. Eight appointments at seven thirty, booked through a website with tasteful serif fonts and a cancellation policy I’d never need because I hadn’t missed a single one. Eight times sitting in that chair, telling myself the attraction was to stillness.

Not to him. Not to his hands.

To stillness.

I checked the dashboard clock. 7:14. Sixteen minutes early, which was six minutes ahead of my usual ten-minute buffer, which meant I was accelerating. The data was trending in a direction I didn’t care to graph.

Philadelphia traffic crawled along Broad Street, brake lights smearing red across rain-slicked asphalt. I used the delay to review what awaited me after the appointment. The acquisition models needed another pass. Three board members required individual briefings before Tuesday’s vote. My assistant had flagged a contract discrepancy that could crater a vendor relationship if left unaddressed through the weekend.

The list should have consumed me. It always consumed me. I’d built a career out of being consumed by lists — every possible failure identified, triaged, and neutralized before anyone else noticed the threat existed.

Instead, I was thinking about cedar.

Cedar and citrus and the particular warmth of a hot towel pressed over a man’s face at the end of a week that never seemed to end any other way.

Inside, Bellamy House was emptying. Friday’s last appointments were filtering out. The studio was exactly what it always was: six black leather chairs in a row beneath brass-framed mirrors, dark-green walls that should have felt heavy but somehow read as lush, warm pendant lights casting everything in tones of whiskey and old gold.

He was at the far station, cleaning a set of clippers with a brush, his back half-turned. The leather apron crossed his shoulders, its brass hardware catching the light when he moved. His sleeves were pushed past his elbows, and the tattoos on both forearms shifted with the muscles underneath as he worked.

“Leander.”

He turned, and there it was — that mouth. Curved slightly, always, as though he’d just remembered something privately amusing. Dark hazel eyes that looked gold under the pendant lights. The silver ring in his left ear.

Nico Bellamy smiled at me like I’d done something worth smiling about by walking through the door, and my chest did something I refused to name.

“Right on time,” he said. “You want the usual?”

“Please.”

The word came out clipped. Too formal for the warmth of the room, too tight for a transaction I’d been anticipating since Tuesday. I compensated by removing my jacket with deliberate calm, hanging it on the brass hook beside the station — always the same hook, third from the left — and placing my watch in the small ceramic tray on the counter.

Nico swept the cape around me and fastened it at the back of my neck. His fingers brushed my collar. The contact lasted perhaps half a second — and my pulse responded as though he’d pressed his palm flat against my spine.

“Close your eyes.”

I closed them. The towel settled over my face. Hot. Damp. Heavy enough to press the world into silence. Steam seeped into my pores and my jaw — clenched since approximately six fifteen that morning — began, incrementally, to release.

He shaved me and I gripped the armrests and my body understood every contact as language. His thumb brushed my lower lip — checking the line — and my hands closed on the leather so hard my knuckles ached.

Then the scalp massage. His fingers in my hair. My breathing slowed. My shoulders dropped. A sound built in my throat — low, involuntary — and I converted it into clearing my throat. Badly. The fiction was transparent and we both knew it.

Nico’s hands paused. A fraction of a second. Then continued.

But he’d paused. He’d heard the sound I’d almost made, and he’d registered it.

I left a sixty-percent tip. Nico returned half of it.

“The service is worth what I charge.” His eyes held mine. “You don’t owe me extra for enjoying it.”

The word enjoying detonated between us.

I drove home with the back of my neck still tingling. The condo was quiet. I stood at the kitchen island with leftover Thai food and replayed the way he’d said close your eyes with the calm authority of someone who expected to be obeyed.

And I had obeyed. Immediately. Without negotiation. The relief of it — the pure, annihilating relief of being told what to do by someone who wasn’t asking me to solve a problem — had nearly undone me in a barber chair on a Friday night.

Twelve minutes home. I counted every one.

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Saturday Morning Shave — A scene TOO HOT for retailers

Leander tries to shave himself with Nico’s grandfather’s razor. It goes badly. Nico intervenes. Foggy reading glasses, bathroom counter sex, and the filthiest praise either of them has ever whispered on a Saturday morning.

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