Open House
"She's showing him houses. He's not interested in the property. She knows exactly what he's really shopping for."
Darlene texts me the address at 10 AM.
Three-bedroom, updated kitchen, finished basement. Perfect for you. Meet me at noon.
I've been house hunting for six weeks. Darlene has been my realtor for all of them. She's shown me twenty properties—condos, townhouses, single-family homes. I haven't made an offer on any of them.
It's not because the houses are wrong.
It's because I want to keep seeing Darlene.
She's waiting on the porch when I pull up.
Fifty-three years old, divorced, top seller at her agency for the past decade. She's wearing a cream blouse and a navy skirt that hugs curves most women her age would try to hide.
Darlene doesn't hide anything.
She's big—no other word for it. Five-five, easily two-forty, with hips that strain her skirt and breasts that test every button of her blouse. Her hair is blonde, carefully styled. Her face is made up with professional precision. Her smile is practiced, professional, and somehow still makes my heart race.
"Right on time." She unlocks the door. "I think you're going to love this one."
"That's what you said about the last five."
"And I was right about all of them. You just haven't been ready to commit." She holds my gaze a beat too long. "Some men have trouble with commitment."
She walks inside. I follow, watching her ass sway beneath the navy fabric.
The house is perfect.
Three bedrooms. Hardwood floors. A kitchen that looks like it's never been used. Darlene leads me through each room, pointing out features, but I'm barely listening.
"Master bedroom," she says, opening the final door. "Walk-in closet. En-suite bath. And look at this natural light."
The room is empty—just blank walls and afternoon sun. Darlene walks to the window, gesturing at the view. Her blouse pulls tight across her breasts.
"What do you think?"
"I think I'm not looking at the view."
She goes still. Doesn't turn around.
"What are you looking at, Marcus?"
"You know what I'm looking at."
Slowly, she turns. Leans against the windowsill. Crosses her arms under her breasts—pushing them up, making them even more impossible to ignore.
"Six weeks," she says. "Twenty houses. And you haven't made a single offer."
"The right one hasn't come along."
"Hasn't it?" She tilts her head. "Or are you just not interested in houses?"
"I'm interested in you."
The words hang in the empty room.
Darlene's expression doesn't change—professional, controlled. But something shifts in her eyes.
"I'm your realtor."
"And I've been wasting your time looking at properties I have no intention of buying, just so I can spend an hour with you. Just so I can watch you walk through empty rooms and imagine—"
"Imagine what?"
"This."
I cross the room. Stop inches from her. She doesn't move—doesn't back away, doesn't lean in. Just watches me with those calculating eyes.
"I'm twenty years older than you."
"I know."
"I'm not the kind of woman men your age want."
"You're exactly what I want." I reach out, touch her face. She inhales sharply. "You've been exactly what I want since the first showing."
"This is unprofessional."
"So is showing twenty houses to a buyer you know isn't serious."
She laughs—surprised, genuine.
"You noticed."
"Of course I noticed. You're smart, Darlene. You knew I wasn't buying. You kept showing me properties anyway."
"Maybe I liked the company." Her voice softens. "Maybe I liked the way you looked at me. Like I was worth looking at."
"You are." I lean closer. "You're worth so much more than looking."
She makes a sound—half sigh, half surrender—and pulls me down to kiss her.
She tastes like coffee and lipstick.
Her mouth is hungry, her hands gripping my shoulders, pulling me against her. I feel her body through the professional layers—soft, warm, yielding.
"The bedroom," she breathes. "We're in a bedroom. An empty one."
"Convenient."
"Almost like I planned it." She smiles against my lips. "I may have told the sellers to leave the house empty for the showing."
"You knew this would happen?"
"I hoped." She reaches for my belt. "I've been hoping for six weeks."
We undress each other in the afternoon light.
Her blouse first—buttons popping in my impatience. Her bra is cream-colored, practical, holding breasts that spill over the cups. I unhook it, and they fall free—heavy, soft, perfect.
"God," I breathe.
"I know. They're not—"
"They're beautiful." I cup them, feel their weight. "You're beautiful."
Her skirt comes next. Panties to match the bra. And then she's naked in an empty bedroom, all curves and sunlight, more beautiful than any property she's ever shown me.
"Now you," she says.
I strip. Her eyes drop to my cock—hard, aching for her—and she licks her lips.
"That's what I've been hoping for."
She sinks to her knees.
Her mouth is wet and eager.
She sucks me like she's been thinking about it for weeks—because she has. We both have. I tangle my fingers in her careful hair, watch her professional composure dissolve into pure need.
"I've wanted this since the first showing," she murmurs around me. "Kept imagining you bending me over kitchen counters. Taking me in empty master bedrooms."
"We can do all of that."
"We're going to." She stands, walks to the wall. Braces her hands against it. Looks at me over her shoulder. "Starting now."
I cross to her. Run my hands down her back, her hips, her ass. She's so soft. So ready.
"Don't tease," she says. "I've waited long enough."
I position myself and push inside.
She moans—loud, echoing in the empty room.
"Yes—God—yes—"
I grip her hips and fuck her against the wall. Each thrust makes her cry out. Her breasts swing beneath her, brushing the paint.
"Harder—please—I need it harder—"
I give her harder. The sound of our bodies fills the empty house—skin on skin, moans and gasps, the wet rhythm of need.
"I've been so lonely," she gasps. "So fucking lonely—no one touches me—no one wants me—"
"I want you." I lean over her, bite her shoulder. "I've wanted you every second of every showing."
"Then show me."
I slam into her. She screams. Her body starts to shake.
"I'm coming—fuck—I'm coming—"
She shatters against the wall, her pussy gripping me in waves. I follow her over—explode inside her while she's still trembling, fill her in the empty master bedroom of a house I'm finally going to buy.
We lie on the floor afterward.
Bare hardwood beneath us. Afternoon sun slanting through the windows. Her head on my chest.
"So," she says. "What do you think of the property?"
"I love it."
"Ready to make an offer?"
"Full asking price." I kiss her forehead. "On one condition."
"What's that?"
"You help me break in every room."
She laughs—warm, satisfied.
"That could take a while."
"I'm counting on it."
We close on the house three weeks later.
Darlene comes to the signing in her professional best—cream blouse, navy skirt. She shakes my hand for the cameras. Hands me the keys with a smile.
"Congratulations on your new home."
"Thanks for finding it for me."
"Finding it was easy." She leans close, whispers so only I can hear. "Breaking it in will take longer."
That night, she arrives at my new house with champagne and nothing under her coat.
We start in the kitchen.
We don't finish until we've hit every room.
Some properties are worth waiting for.
Some realtors are worth everything.