The Neighbor’s Package

MM Neighbors-to-Lovers Romance
by Jace Wilder

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Neighbors to Lovers, Age Gap, Divorced Hero, Kink Discovery, Praise Kink, Forced Proximity, Found Family, He Falls First, Slow Burn

The package was addressed to his neighbor. The temptation was not.

Noah Bell has a system for everything. Rent. Groceries. Retirement contributions. The precise number of seconds he can maintain eye contact with Adrian Cross — the silver-haired divorce attorney across the hall — before his face catches fire.

What Noah does not have a system for is the discreet subscription box that lands at his door by mistake. The one with Adrian’s name on it. The one from a company that sells things Noah has only ever thought about in private, with the lights off, while pretending he wasn’t thinking about them at all.

He returns it. Unopened. Like a responsible adult.

Then another one arrives. And another.

Adrian takes the third box, leans against his doorframe, and asks Noah — in that voice, the one that sounds like whiskey over warm gravel — whether he’d like to stop pretending he isn’t curious.

What starts as an education between neighbors becomes something Noah’s careful life never accounted for: a man who praises him like he means it, touches him like he’s worth slowing down for, and refuses to let Noah apologize for wanting more.

But Adrian knows how relationships end. He watched his marriage dissolve in polite silence, and he’d rather manage Noah’s problems than admit he’s falling in love again.

Noah didn’t spend thirty years learning to be brave just to become someone else’s project. If Adrian wants to keep him, he’ll have to do the one thing his ex-husband says he never could: ask for what he needs out loud.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ MM neighbors-to-lovers with a 14-year age gap
✅ A divorced silver-fox attorney who falls first and falls hard
✅ Praise kink that will ruin you for lesser books
✅ Kink discovery with enthusiastic consent and real communication
✅ “I did research” energy meets “I’ll show you” energy
✅ Found-family apartment building with the nosiest neighbors
✅ Dual first-person POV, inferno heat, HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes including kink exploration, sensory play, and prostate stimulation), strong language, themes of divorce recovery, and depictions of anxiety and self-worth struggles. Intended for readers 18+.

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Chapter One: Delivered to the Wrong Door

The package was not mine.

I knew this because my name is Noah Bell, and the label on the box said Adrian Cross, 4B. I knew it because I hadn’t ordered anything from a company called Velvet & Co., which sounded like either a high-end candle store or something I wasn’t supposed to be holding in my building’s hallway at 6:47 on a Friday evening. And I knew it because the packaging had that specific kind of discretion — matte black, no product images, the return address printed in a font so small you’d need a magnifying glass to read it — that screamed this contains something its owner does not want discussed in public.

I should have set it outside apartment 4B and walked away.

Instead, I was standing in the hallway holding another man’s package — not a euphemism, though my brain supplied the alternate reading immediately and without permission — trying to decide whether knocking on Adrian Cross’s door at this hour constituted a neighborly gesture or a social crime.

Here’s what I knew about Adrian Cross: he was a divorce attorney. He wore suits that looked like they cost more than my monthly rent. He had dark hair going silver at the temples in a way that shouldn’t have been allowed, because some things are too effective to be deployed casually in shared elevator spaces. He moved through the building like a man who had never once worried about whether he was taking up too much room. He had a voice that I’d heard through the wall exactly twice — once on a phone call, once greeting Mrs. Alvarez — and both times, my body had responded like I’d accidentally touched a live wire.

He had lived across the hall from me for two years.

We had exchanged maybe forty words total.

I knocked anyway, because I was a responsible adult who believed in the integrity of the postal system, and also because I’d been standing in the hallway for ninety seconds and Mrs. Alvarez’s door was at the end of the hall and that woman had a sixth sense for anything worth commenting on.

The door opened.

Adrian Cross was not wearing a suit.

Adrian Cross was wearing a gray T-shirt that had been washed enough times to go soft and thin, and sweatpants that sat low on his hips, and nothing on his feet, and reading glasses pushed up into his hair like he’d forgotten they were there. He looked like a man who’d been horizontal on a couch five seconds ago. He looked like a completely different person than the one I saw in the elevator, which was a problem, because the elevator version was already more than I could process, and this version — soft, unguarded, slightly rumpled — was going to require a full system restart.

His forearms were bare. He had tattoos. I had not known about the tattoos.

“Hi,” I said.

Incredible. A real wordsmith.

“That’s mine,” he said. His voice was low and unhurried and sounded exactly the way it sounded through the wall, except now it was directed at me, and I could see his mouth making the words, and I needed to stop cataloging the details of his mouth immediately.

“I know,” I said. “It was — the delivery driver left it at my door. 4A. Our apartment numbers, they’re — the fonts are similar, on the labels, and sometimes the — the delivery chain, the logistics, it —”

I was saying the words delivery chain to a man who looked like that. In sweatpants. At his own door.

“—gets confused,” I finished, handing it over.

His hand closed around the other end of the box. His fingers brushed mine. My nervous system treated it like a five-alarm event.

“Thank you.” He said it simply, looking directly at me, and the problem was that he sounded like he meant it. Not politely. Specifically. Like the act of me knocking on his door and handing him a box was something he intended to remember.

“I believe in maintaining responsible delivery chain integrity,” I said, and the phrase came out of my mouth fully formed, like a press release from the least interesting man alive.

Delivery chain integrity. That’s what I chose to say. To this man. In this T-shirt.

I retreated into my apartment, closed the door, and stood there with my back against it like a character in a romantic comedy.

I thought about the way Adrian Cross had leaned against his doorframe. The ink on his wrists. The half-smile that wasn’t quite a smile. The way he’d said good night, Noah like he was filing it away somewhere.

I went to bed at 10:15, like I always did, in sheets that were clean because I washed them every Sunday, in an apartment that was quiet because I kept it that way, in a life that was precisely, exactly, immaculately —

Fine.

Everything was fine.

I turned off the lamp and stared at the ceiling and absolutely did not think about what was in that box.

I thought about it the entire time.

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The Anniversary Box — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon

One year together. One very special delivery. Noah has been planning. Adrian has no idea what’s coming. The subscription box started everything — and the anniversary edition is going to finish them both. Blindfolds, warm oil, and the most explicit scene in the series.

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