Open Door Policy
MMF Polyamory Romance
by Isla Wilde
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Pairing: MMF (Triad)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Polyamory, Why Choose, Landlord/Tenant, Forced Proximity, Bi Awakening, Found Family, Praise Kink, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism
One house. Three keys. Every door open.
Eli Thorne has twelve months to save his grandmother’s crumbling Victorian, so he fills it the only way he knows how — with people who need a home. He didn’t plan on the intense architect in the attic who looks at him like a restoration project. Or the chaos-in-human-form artist in the sunroom who kisses him over the dirty dishes. He definitely didn’t plan on wanting them both.
Priya has a policy: leave before you’re left. Mason has a rule: he doesn’t share. Eli has a proposal that breaks both.
When a homophobic uncle launches a legal siege to seize the house for demolition, the three of them must fight for their home — and for each other. Mason’s architecture thesis becomes a weapon. Priya’s testimony becomes a rallying cry. And Eli has to stop being the innkeeper and start being a partner, before the thing they’ve built collapses under the weight of everything they’re afraid to say.
Three people. Ten rules on a chalkboard. One radiator that won’t stop knocking.
You’ll love this book if you enjoy:
✅ Scorching MMF ménage with full MM on-page
✅ Bi hero discovering he wants both — and getting both
✅ Landlord/tenant tension with forced proximity
✅ Found family in a queer Victorian house
✅ Praise kink, exhibition, rope, and a reading-chair scene you’ll bookmark
✅ A villain you’ll despise and a grandmother who plays chess from the grave
✅ A triad who choose each other on purpose — twice
✅ HEA guaranteed
⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MMF and MM scenes including bondage/rope play), strong language, homophobic antagonist, legal threats to housing security, and themes of abandonment and self-worth. Intended for readers 18+.
📖 Read Chapter One Free
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Chapter One: Vacancy
The roof was trying to kill me, and honestly, I respected it for having a plan.
I was straddling the ridge line of Thorne House in a light September rain, thirty-two feet above the garden, holding a tube of roofing sealant in one hand and my grandmother’s memory in the other, because Dot was the last person who’d actually known how this house worked. She used to say the Victorian had moods. That the third-floor radiator sulked, the pocket doors flirted, and the roof — the roof held grudges.
The roof, it turned out, held water. Directly above my bedroom. In a slow, patient drip that had ruined one pillow, threatened a second, and made a sound at 3 a.m. like the house clearing its throat to tell me something.
“I know,” I told the shingles, smearing sealant along a seam split like an old lip. “I know. I’m working on it.”
Below me, the certified-mail truck pulled up.
You learn to fear certified mail the way sailors fear a green sky. Regular mail brings coupons and condolence cards. Certified mail brings lawyers.
By the time I climbed down — carefully, because dying before opening the envelope felt like letting it win — my hands were wet and my heart was doing something arrhythmic and stupid.
RE: Estate of Dorothy Anne Thorne. Notice of Outstanding Lien and Conditional Transfer.
The short version: Grandma Dot, who had raised me in this house on cinnamon toast and casual profanity, had left me the place with a catch. There was a lien against the estate — taxes, an old second mortgage she’d never mentioned, a number with more digits than my savings account had ever contemplated. I had twelve months to clear it.
And if I didn’t, the house didn’t go to the bank. It went to Gerald.
Dot had known exactly what she was doing. The will was her last chess move, and the note she’d left with her lawyer — handwritten, blue ink, her looping schoolteacher script — was the check.
Fill it with family, Eli. Any kind.
Seven bedrooms. One of me. That was six vacancies, and I knew exactly who needed rooms in this town and couldn’t find them.
“Okay, Dot,” I said out loud, and the radiator in the parlor knocked twice, which I decided was agreement. “Okay.”
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The Eraser — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon
Priya finally uses the eraser. Not to end anything — to rewrite one rule filthier. Then the three of them christen Mason’s newly restored attic with the landmark plaque on the wall and absolutely nothing historic about what happens under it.
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