Captain’s Pet Brat

An MM Firefighter Romance · by Jace Wilder

Read Now 📖

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Pairing: MM

Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno

Length: ~120,000 words

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Age Gap (17 years), Grumpy/Sunshine, Forced Proximity, Hurt/Comfort, Praise Kink, Brat/Tamer, Size Difference, Found Family, Workplace Romance, Blue Collar

HEA: Guaranteed

He heard the crack in the radio and went up the stairs anyway.

Captain Reyes ‘Ghost’ Harlan has run Station 19 for ten years with a dead man’s medal around his neck and a closed door on his grief. He fosters dogs. He drives a truck older than his lieutenant. He has not been touched in seven years. He does not plan to be touched again.

Lieutenant Dax ‘Blaze’ Rivera is a cocky ex-Army hotshot with a mouth that won’t stay shut, a Bronze Star he refuses to talk about, and a sleeve of flames inked up his left arm. He has been reassigned to Station 19 for the Beast Fire. He has been told, in thirteen separate performance reviews, that he is a brat. He does not disagree.

The California fire season is burning itself into history. A district chief named Thorne wants Station 19 shut down and is willing to engineer deaths to make it happen. A CO device on a Ridgefall line. A sabotaged fallback order. A second chief in a federal cell who has not given up trying to finish the job.

In the middle of all of it: a decon tent at 0217 with a burn dressing and a kiss that was not supposed to happen. A tent at Laurel Pine with a confession that was. A cabin in Callahan with a wood stove and a rocker and a man who carries his grief in a box on the dresser now instead of on his skin.

Ghost heard the crack in the radio at the third-floor collapse on Elm and Fourth and he went up the stairs anyway. Blaze watched him come across the gap and knew, right then, that the rest of his life was going to be about keeping this man alive.

A high-heat MM enemies-to-lovers firefighter romance with an age gap, a praise kink, a grumpy captain, a cocky lieutenant, a three-legged pit bull, a seven-year-old boy, a wedding in an apparatus bay, and an HEA big enough to hold all of it.

You’ll love this if you enjoy:

• Grumpy silver-fox captains with wire-rim reading glasses and unfinished grief work
• Cocky 30-year-old lieutenants who brat their way into being called good boy
• Age gap (17 years) with zero shame and plenty of praise
• Hurt/comfort so dense you need a decon tent to get through it
• Found family that includes a lesbian lieutenant, a red-haired probie who cries at everything, and a Filipina tita who makes lumpia
• A three-legged pit bull named Juno who is the book’s real main character
• A wedding at Station 19 with pine-branch arch, 740 tamales, and a seven-year-old ring bearer

Read Now 📖

Bonus Chapter 🔥

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read the full first chapter right here.

Chapter One: Flashover

REYES

The Beast was eating the northern ridge at the rate of a football field every ninety seconds, and my radio wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

“Command, Division Alpha, we’ve got spotting across the drainage, repeat, spotting across the drainage, recommending line retreat at the saddle—”

“Copy Alpha, hold at the saddle, I want eyes on that spot—”

“Command, Air Attack, we’re twenty out with two tankers, pattern indicator says north face is gonna hold another forty minutes tops—”

I thumbed the mic of the second radio. “Air Attack, Harlan. Put the first tanker on the spot fire in the drainage, second on the main head. We need thirty minutes.”

“Harlan, Air Attack. Copy. Thirty.”

I dropped the mic, put both palms on the map spread over the hood of the command rig, and breathed out through my teeth. Behind me, the world was orange. In front of me, on paper, the world was a bunch of contour lines and grease-penciled arrows and one hand-drawn star where Ridgefall sat like a sleeping kid in a burning house.

Sixteen years on this job and the math never got easier. You drew lines on paper. Men stood on those lines. Sometimes the lines held. Sometimes the lines burned.

“Cap.”

Mel came around the front of the rig with a clipboard in one hand and a radio in the other and a look on her face that meant a new problem had arrived. She’d been my lieutenant for six years. I’d promoted her over two white guys who’d cried about it. She was worth three of either of them on her worst day.

“What.”

“Hotshot crew’s here. Redline, out of Placerville. Twenty pax. Command punched their assignment to our northwest flank.”

“I didn’t ask for a hotshot crew.”

“I know you didn’t. Command gave us one anyway. Fire’s doubling every hour, cap, they’re spreading resources. Take the help.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Felt the weight of the St. Florian medal against my sternum, where it always was, tucked inside the collar of my undershirt under my Nomex. Luca’s medal, five years old, the engraving softer every year. My thumb found it through the fabric without me telling it to. A small pressure, the same way some guys crossed themselves. Stay with me.

“Fine,” I said. “Send their LT to me.”

“That’s the other thing.” Mel’s mouth did the thing that was almost a smile. “You’re gonna love him.”

I looked up.

The Redline crew rig was still rolling to a stop at the staging pad when the passenger door banged open and a guy jumped out. Jumped. While it was still moving. Boots hit dirt, a little skid, arms out for balance, caught it. Straightened up. Big grin at his crew like did you see that.

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“Told you.”

He crossed the staging pad toward me, and I took inventory the way I took inventory of anyone who was about to stand on my line. Six one. Two hundred, give or take. Line gear squared, Nomex worn and fitted, not new. Helmet tipped back on his head like he was a kid at a baseball game instead of a hotshot lieutenant at an incident command post in a fire that had killed two civilians yesterday. Skin the warm brown of good leather. Black curls sticking out of the helmet band in every direction. Full sleeve of ink down the left arm where he had the Nomex shoved to the elbow — I caught a rose, a skull, a flame in my half second of looking. Cheekbones. A mouth that knew what it was doing and was doing it right now, chewing gum, grinning.

“Captain Harlan?” Southern California accent, pitched warm. He stuck out a hand. “Lieutenant Rivera, Redline Six. Folks call me Blaze.”

I didn’t take the hand right away. I let him stand there a beat. Let him feel the pause. Then I shook, short and hard, and let go first.

His fingers were rough. He held on a half second longer than a handshake needed. He was doing it on purpose.

“Captain Harlan,” I said. “Folks call me Captain Harlan.”

The grin didn’t dim. If anything it got sharper. “Copy that, Cap.”

Behind him, his crew was unloading — twenty men and women, line gear squared, the kind of tight choreography you get from a crew that’s been eating each other’s dust for a season. I gave them one approving look and turned back to the lieutenant.

“Your assignment’s the northwest flank. Drainage line below the saddle. You hold, we don’t lose the oak grove. We lose the oak grove, we lose structure protection’s buffer on the east side of town, and then we lose the elementary school. Any questions?”

“Nope.” Still chewing the gum. Still grinning.

“Lose the gum.”

His tongue pushed the wad into his cheek. He tipped his head a degree. “You always this friendly, Cap?”

“On my line? Yeah.”

I watched his eyes do a thing. Flicker down — mouth, throat, shoulder — and then back up. So fast most people wouldn’t have caught it. I caught it. He knew I caught it.

Christ.

I gave Mel the nod, turned my back on him, and went back to my map. Behind me I heard him spit the gum into a trash bag and call out to his crew and start moving them toward the northwest flank at a jog. I didn’t watch. I didn’t need to watch.

I did anyway. Just at the edge of my vision. Just for one second.

The way he moved was the worst part. The way he moved like he already owned the ground.

“Shut up,” I told Mel without looking at her.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Cap. Oh, my cap. You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

Twenty minutes later Alpha division called spotting across another drainage, the wind shifted four degrees south, and the Beast opened its mouth.

I was on three radios. Mel was on two. Air Attack was rerouting tankers. My engines were repositioning for structure protection along the Ridgefall town line. And on the northwest flank, where I’d put the hotshot crew to cut a goddamn line across a drainage and hold it—

“Command, Redline Six, we’re cutting a contingency line through the oak grove.”

I froze.

“Redline Six, Command. Repeat.”

“Cutting a line through the oak grove, Cap. I can see a slopover bedding down in the duff, gonna make a hell of a spot fire if we don’t get ahead of it. Five mikes. We’ll be back on the drainage.”

“Redline Six. Negative. Hold the drainage. Tankers are inbound on that slopover in eight.”

“Already moving, Cap.” His voice was easy. Like we were having a conversation about lunch. “We got it.”

“Redline Six — hold the goddamn drainage.“

Silence.

Then: “Copy, holding.”

He was not holding. I could tell from the little hitch in his voice. I turned to Mel and she was already holding my helmet out to me.

“I’ll hold the post,” she said. “Go kill him.”

I took the helmet.

I drove the command rig up the spur road to the northwest flank at a speed that was almost certainly in violation of several departmental policies. The sky was the color of a bruise. The air was so thick with smoke my eyes ran. Ash came down like dirty snow. Every surface in the truck had a film of gray on it already.

I pulled up at the staging turnout for the northwest flank just in time to see one of the Redline crew go down.

Hard.

Kid, maybe twenty-four, legs going out from under him as the duff he’d stepped in collapsed. Old root burn underneath, hollowed out. He dropped into the hole up to his hip and didn’t come out. I heard the crack of his ankle from forty feet away.

“MEDIC — MEDIC UP THE LINE—“

Rivera was already on him. On his knees in the ash, one hand on the kid’s chest, one hand on the radio, calm like nothing, calling for the EMTs, eyes scanning the smoke for me because he already knew I was coming.

I came.

I came fast.

He stood up from his crewmate when he saw me, and I swear to God he squared up like I was going to swing on him. Maybe I should have. My crew was watching. His crew was watching. The whole flank was watching.

I grabbed him by the front of his Nomex, the heel of my hand catching the chest strap of his line gear, and I walked him six steps backward until his back hit a boulder the size of a washing machine. Didn’t take my eyes off him. Didn’t say a word until I had him exactly where I wanted him.

His helmet had come off. Curls plastered to his temples with sweat. Soot on his cheekbone like someone had brushed it there with a thumb. A smear of blood at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten his lip coming down off the line.

And his eyes.

His eyes were laughing.

“That was not the assignment, Lieutenant.”

“Cap, the spot fire was—”

“Shut your mouth.”

He shut it.

I leaned in. Close enough to smell the smoke on him. Close enough to see the gold in his eyes, up close, where the hazel went bright at the pupil. Close enough that I felt him breathing. Short and fast. From the exertion. From the boulder at his back. From me.

“On my line,” I said, “you follow my assignment. You hold the drainage. You do not freelance through an oak grove because your gut told you the fire was doing something. My gut, the air attack’s gut, and a satellite heat map told us the tankers were gonna hit that slopover in eight minutes. Your man is going to the hospital with a compound fracture because you wanted to play hero.”

His jaw worked.

“I heard about you, Rivera,” I said, quieter. “Heard you were a cowboy. Heard it was going to kill someone someday. Not today. Not on my fire. Not on my crew. You understand me?”

Something moved behind his eyes. Not anger. I’d expected anger. This was something else. Something with a little heat in it that didn’t belong here, at 1400 hours on a flank of a fire that had killed two people yesterday.

“Yes, Captain,” he said.

Low. Rough.

I let go of his Nomex like it had burned me. Stepped back. Gave him a foot of space, two feet, three. Didn’t turn my back on him. Not yet.

“Your crew’s moving back to the drainage. Now. You’re riding back with me.”

“Cap—”

“Now.“

He went.

I watched him walk back to his crew. Heard him call them back onto the drainage in a voice that was suddenly sharp and professional and bore very little resemblance to the lazy drawl he’d used with me. Watched him help two of his guys load the injured kid — Barrett, his LT called him, kid named Barrett — into the medic unit. Watched him pat Barrett’s shoulder. Say something I couldn’t hear. Barrett laughed, which meant whatever Rivera said was probably obscene.

Then he came back to me and got into the passenger seat of the command rig without a word.

We drove back to the command post in silence.

I did not look at him. I did not look at him the whole twenty-minute drive, even when the wind shifted again and the light inside the cab went a particular red that made his profile — the line of his throat, the mouth — look like something you’d get a sermon over.

I did not look at him.

I looked exactly one time.

Halfway there. Washboard section of the spur road, truck jouncing, his hand braced flat on the dash to steady himself, and I glanced across the cab before I could stop myself and he was already watching me.

Not grinning this time.

Just watching.

My hand on the wheel tightened until my knuckles went white.

“Captain,” he said.

“Don’t.”

“I was going to apologize.”

“No you weren’t.”

A long pause. Then, very quiet, like he was talking to the dashboard more than to me: “You’re right. I wasn’t.”

He didn’t say another word the rest of the drive.

I didn’t either.

I just drove, with Luca’s medal pressing into my sternum and my pulse doing a thing it had no business doing, and behind us the ridge burned.

Twenty-two hundred hours, the Ridgefall Tavern, and I was going to buy Captain Tight-Ass a beer if it was the last thing I did.

We’d come off the line at eighteen. Showered the worst of the char off at the spike camp, changed into clean civs, and the whole Redline crew and half of Station 19 were stacked into the only bar inside the evac perimeter — a shitty pine-paneled, sticky-floored, neon-Coors miracle of a place called the Tavern. Pool table in the back. Two TVs showing baseball on mute. Jukebox playing a Garth Brooks song that had been old when my grandmother was young. A menu with exactly four items, all of them fried.

It was perfect.

And two stools down the bar, Captain Ghost Harlan was having a Coors Light with his lieutenant and pretending I didn’t exist.

Fine.

I could work with that.

“What’ll it be, sugar?” The bartender was fifty-something, blonde, bored.

“Two Coors Lights,” I said. “One for me, one for Captain Romance over there.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You buying for Reyes?”

“I am.”

“Son. I been pouring that man drinks for ten years. Nobody buys for Reyes.”

“Tonight’s his lucky night.”

She snorted. Cracked two cans. Slid them over. I paid in cash, tipped three bucks on a six-dollar tab to make her laugh at me, and picked up the beers.

I’d had eleven hours to think about it.

Eleven hours of driving back to spike camp, doing the paperwork on Barrett’s ankle (clean break, he’d be back on the line in six weeks, and he’d hugged me before the medic unit left), walking the line twice more before sunset, eating a ration bar, showering cold because the spike had hot water for the first fifteen dudes and I was number seventeen, and every single minute of those eleven hours, behind whatever else I was doing, there’d been a loop in my head of Captain Reyes Harlan’s hand fisted in the front of my Nomex and his mouth six inches from my mouth and his voice going I heard about you, Rivera. Heard you were a cowboy.

I’d been hard twice, briefly, in the shower. I hadn’t done anything about it. Hadn’t trusted myself. Shut the water off and stood there shivering until I could think about anything else.

He was six four if he was an inch. Broad through the chest like a man who’d spent two decades hauling hose and men and his own demons up hills. Gray eyes. Black hair buzzed short. Five o’clock shadow that was now closer to eleven. Nose had been broken at least twice. Jaw like God hadn’t been subtle about it. And under the Nomex on the line I’d caught a glimpse of tattoo on his collarbone where the shirt had gaped — nothing pretty, just old black lines, and I wanted to see the rest of it more than I wanted most things.

He hadn’t smiled once in the six hours I’d been on his fire.

I was going to make him smile.

Or make him do something else.

I walked the two beers down the bar.

His lieutenant saw me coming first and started doing a visible I-am-watching-this, folding her arms, tilting her head, settling in like a woman at the theater. I liked her already.

Reyes didn’t look up until I set the can on the bar beside his elbow.

“Captain.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I’m offering yet.”

“You’re offering a beer. I said no.”

“Come on, Cap. Consider it a peace offering. Today was rough. We got off on the wrong foot.”

His eyes came up.

I’d thought I was prepared.

I was not prepared.

At 1400 on the line he’d had a helmet on and his jaw had been tight and his mouth had been a flat line and the sky had been orange. Here at the Tavern at twenty-two hundred he was in a black henley with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, forearms all on display — corded, tanned, tattooed from wrist to elbow in solid black-and-gray flames, the kind of ink a man pays a lot of money for over a lot of years — and his hair was a little damp at the temples from a recent shower, and his gray eyes in the shitty warm light of the Tavern were the color of a knife blade in a kitchen drawer.

My knees did a thing.

I stayed standing.

“Rivera,” he said. “I’m not drinking with a man who put my crewmate in an ambulance today because he wouldn’t follow an assignment.”

“He’s my crewmate, not yours.”

“On my fire, he’s mine.”

Oh.

Oh.

My stomach did the thing my knees had done earlier, and I had to put a hand on the bar to keep from leaning into it.

“Then drink with me because he’s ours.“

The lieutenant made a noise that was mostly in her nose and sipped her own beer. Reyes did not look away from my face.

“No,” he said.

“Captain—”

“Which part of no is giving you trouble, Lieutenant Rivera?”

I grinned at him. I had to. I couldn’t help it. It came up out of me like a reflex and I let it. “The part where you think I’m gonna hear it and walk away.”

“Walk away, Rivera.”

“Play me a game of pool first.”

“No.”

“One game.”

“No.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

Behind him, the lieutenant actually coughed into her beer. I clocked her mouthing oh my fucking god at the wall, and I knew, right then, that I had her on my side whether she liked me or not. Women who read men for a living could see a fight coming from a long way off. She wanted to watch.

Reyes set his beer down.

Very carefully.

“One game,” he said.

“One game.”

“You lose, you leave me alone the rest of the night.”

“I win, you buy the next round.”

A pause. “Fine.”

The pool table was in the back, under a stained-glass light fixture that said BUD on it. I racked. He chalked. I leaned my hip on the rail and watched him set up his break, and I did not pretend I wasn’t looking.

He saw me looking.

He didn’t say a word.

He broke.

A solid went in, which made him stripes, and he walked around the table without looking at me once. Sank a stripe. Walked. Lined up. Sank another. Walked. Lined up.

I have played pool in forty-three bars in twelve states across three countries. I am a reasonably good pool player. I was going to lose this game, and I had known it from the moment I saw him chalk.

He was gorgeous playing pool.

It wasn’t even fair.

The way he moved around the table was the same way he’d moved on my fire — quiet, economical, no wasted motion, the kind of body awareness that comes from a man who has worked with his body every day of his life since he was a teenager. He bent at the waist to line up a shot and the back of his henley rode up a quarter inch over the waistband of his jeans and I saw a line of gold-tan skin and the top edge of the elastic of his underwear. Black.

I had to swallow.

He made the shot.

He stood up. He looked at me. He said, very mildly, “Nine ball, corner pocket,” and bent down to line up the kill shot, and I realized he was running the table on me in one turn.

I had not sunk a ball.

I was not going to.

He sank the nine. Clean. Like it had been offended by the air between it and the pocket and he was putting it out of its misery.

He laid the cue on the rail, straightened up, and looked at me.

“You owe me a beer, Rivera,” he said.

“That wasn’t the bet.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t. The bet was you leave me alone.” He didn’t move. I didn’t either. We were maybe four feet apart, with the table between us and not enough light and my crew on the other side of the bar laughing about something and Reyes’s lieutenant still watching like she was keeping score.

I couldn’t stop myself.

I leaned a hip against the pool table. Let my shirt ride up a little of its own. Let him see whatever he wanted to see of the tattoo at my waistband and the piercings through my shirt if he was paying attention, and I already knew he was paying attention.

“Good game, Captain.”

“Goodnight, Rivera.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately.”

I turned toward the bar. Two steps. Three. Then I looked back over my shoulder, and his eyes were exactly where I’d expected them to be, which was not on my face.

He dragged them up.

He did not pretend he hadn’t been looking.

Something warm rolled through my chest and down and settled, and I said, loud enough that the lieutenant heard me and choked for real this time:

“See you in the showers, Captain.”

His jaw did a thing.

I walked out of the Tavern whistling.

My apparatus bay at Station 19 at 0300 smelled like diesel and wet rope and the particular cold metal smell of an engine that had been run hot for twelve hours and then parked.

I was alone in it.

I should have been in my bunk. I had a 0600 briefing. I’d been up since 0430 the previous morning, which put me at somewhere north of twenty-two hours awake, which on this job wasn’t remarkable but also wasn’t smart. I should have been in my bunk.

I was standing in the apparatus bay with a hand flat on the cold side of Engine 19 and my forehead pressed to my knuckles and Luca’s medal in my other fist, because I couldn’t sleep.

Because for the first time in five years I had spent a whole day with something other than Luca running in the back of my head, and now he was gone from there and I couldn’t get him back, and a twenty-eight-year-old lieutenant with a mouth and a Jacob’s ladder I’d caught a glimpse of through his shirt — don’t pretend you didn’t see it, Harlan — was running there instead.

I was so angry I could barely breathe.

Not at him. At me.

I’d been clean for five years. Clean the way an alcoholic is clean, careful, every day on purpose. Work, crew, dog, sleep. Work, crew, dog, sleep. I fostered and I rehomed and I ran the engines and I went to Luca’s grave on the second Sunday of the month and I did not, I did not, I did not let anyone near enough that I would have to bury them.

I’d held his hand for five years through a piece of tarnished brass against my sternum. I was good at it.

And now some fucking hotshot from Placerville had spent six minutes with his back against a boulder and I couldn’t hear anything else.

The radio on Engine 19 crackled.

I almost ignored it. Dispatch chatter at 0300 was usually traffic. Coyotes. A drunk on Route 80. But this wasn’t dispatch — it was the district frequency, and the voice that came on it was one I knew, one I’d been building a file on for six months, and my spine went up before my brain caught up to why.

“All stations, all stations, this is District Chief Thorne.”

I lifted my head.

“Effective 0700 hours tomorrow, all Region Three stations within the Beast Fire response zone are subject to an operational consolidation review. Stations currently under review for budget-driven restructure include Station Nineteen, Station Twenty-three, and Station Forty-one. Captains will report to district command at 0800 for preliminary briefing. Review is expected to conclude within fourteen operational days. Out.”

The radio clicked off.

The apparatus bay was silent except for the tick of the engine cooling.

Station 19.

My station.

Ten years. Two dozen crews. Every man and woman I’d promoted, every probie I’d run through her first burn, every dog I’d rehomed out the back door of this bay into a family that would love her — all of it, on the chopping block because Kade Thorne had something he wanted and a corrupt pipeline to get it through and a file on me he thought I didn’t know about.

Behind me, boots on concrete.

“Cap.” Mel. Blanket around her shoulders. Hair rumpled. She’d heard it on the bunkroom radio. “That absolute motherfucker.”

“Yeah.”

“We gonna fight him?”

I opened my fist. The St. Florian medal sat there, warm from my palm. Five years of my thumb on it. The engraving nearly worn smooth. Luca. Luca. Luca.

I closed my fist again.

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re gonna fight him.”

Outside the bay the wind shifted. I felt it before I heard it — felt the pressure change at the back of my skull, the way you feel a big rig coming before you see it in the rearview. The Beast was waking back up. It had slept six hours and now it was hungry again. By noon it would be running east. By nightfall it would be at the Ridgefall town line.

And in the morning, at 0600 briefing, Lieutenant Dax Rivera was going to walk back into my command post with his gum and his grin and his see you in the showers, Captain, and I was going to have to stand there and run my fire like a man who hadn’t thought about him once since I’d laid down.

“Mel,” I said.

“Yeah, cap.”

“Go back to bed.”

“You coming?”

“In a minute.”

She went.

I stood in the apparatus bay with my hand on the engine and Luca’s medal in my fist and the smell of diesel in my nose, and I thought about a boulder, and a back against it, and a pulse I’d seen moving under the skin of a throat six inches from my face.

Trouble, I thought. That man is going to be trouble.

I was right about that.

I had no idea how right.

Want to keep reading? Captain’s Pet Brat is available now.

🔥 Want an EXCLUSIVE Bonus Chapter?

After Hours — A scene too hot for Amazon

Set between Chapter Five and Chapter Six. The night before Laurel Pine. Station 19 empty except for the captain in his office and the lieutenant who can’t sleep. Free for readers of the book.

More from Jace Wilder

Browse all Jace Wilder books for more MM romance with heat, heart, and sweat.

Kept on Campus

Jace Wilder

He said there were no strings. He lied.

MM Age Gap · Class Difference · College Romance 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Good Boy Clause

Jace Wilder

He needed a rent discount. He got a landlord who calls him good boy.

MM Age Gap · Blue Collar · Forced Proximity 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Curfew & Chains

Jace Wilder

He enforced the rules. I broke every one. Then he made me beg to follow them.

MM Age Gap · Authority Kink · Bratty Sub 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Boss’s Favorite Problem

Jace Wilder

He was supposed to be a performance problem. He became the only performance that mattered.

MM Boss/Employee · Enemies to Lovers · Forced Proximity 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Straight Label, Crooked Line

Jace Wilder

He wrote love songs about women. Then Eli Zhao picked up the drumsticks.

MM Bi Awakening · Closeted · Coming Out 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Rookie on Fire

Jace Wilder

He trained me to follow orders. Then he gave me one I couldn’t resist.

MM Age Gap · Authority Kink · Bi Awakening 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Never Miss a Release

Get new release alerts, exclusive bonus content, and reader-only giveaways.