The Mortgage Broker Madness
"She needs a loan for her dream home. He's the broker who can make it happen. But the real interest rate isn't on any paperwork they'll file."
Buying my first home at fifty-two.
Twenty years of renting, saving, waiting for the right moment. Now I've got the down payment, the credit score, and an appointment with the broker everyone recommends.
"Vincent Shaw will get you approved," my coworker swore. "He's a miracle worker."
She didn't mention he was also fine as hell.
"Mrs. Denise Campbell?"
He meets me in the lobby, hand extended. Tall, dark, suit tailored, smile professional but warm.
"Ms. Campbell," I correct. "Divorced."
"My apologies." Something flickers in his eyes. "Right this way."
His office is impressive.
Degrees on the wall, awards on the shelf, the kind of success that comes from helping people achieve their dreams.
"Tell me about this property," he says.
I show him the listing—a craftsman in Dilworth, three bedrooms, the garden I've wanted my whole life.
"Beautiful choice." He studies the numbers. "Your financials look strong. We can definitely work with this."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch." He smiles. "Just a few meetings to finalize paperwork. Can you come back Thursday?"
Thursday.
Then the following Tuesday.
Then a "quick check-in" that lasts two hours.
Vincent Shaw is either very thorough or finding excuses to see me.
"Can I ask you something personal?" It's our fifth meeting, and the paperwork is definitely finished.
"Of course."
"Are these meetings actually necessary?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then:
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because I haven't stopped thinking about you since you walked into my lobby." He sets down his pen. "And that's completely inappropriate, and I apologize, and if you want to file a complaint—"
I kiss him.
His desk is between us.
Not for long.
He's around it in seconds, pulling me against him, his professional composure shattered.
"Denise—"
"Don't apologize." I grip his tie. "I've been thinking about you too."
"This could cost me my license—"
"Then make sure we finish the paperwork first."
He laughs—surprised, delighted.
"Woman, you're something else."
"You're about to find out how much."
I push him into his executive chair and climb onto his lap.
"Lock the door," I say.
"Already done." His hands find my hips. "I was hopeful."
"Presumptuous."
"Prepared." He pulls me down for a kiss. "There's a difference."
We make out like teenagers.
His hands explore my body through my professional dress—waist, hips, the curve of my ass. When he palms my breasts, I groan.
"Sensitive?"
"It's been years—"
"Then we have a lot of ground to cover." He stands, lifting me with him, sets me on the edge of his desk. "May I?"
"You better."
He drops to his knees.
Pushes my skirt up my thighs, hooks his fingers in my panties, pulls them down with agonizing slowness.
"Vincent—"
"Patience." He kisses my inner thigh. "Rome wasn't built in a day."
"I don't need Rome, I need—"
His mouth finds me, and I forget what I need.
He's methodical.
Like he approaches everything else—thorough, detail-oriented, committed to excellence. His tongue maps my folds while his fingers tease my entrance.
"So responsive," he murmurs. "So beautiful."
"Please—I need more—"
"Tell me exactly what you need."
"Inside me. Now."
He stands, unbuckles his belt.
"Protection?"
"Drawer. Top right."
I raise an eyebrow. "Prepared?"
"Hopeful." He rolls on the condom. "Very, very hopeful."
He slides inside me, and I grip the desk.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay." I wrap my legs around him. "Move."
He moves—slow at first, then building. His hands grip my hips, his forehead presses to mine, his breathing matches my moans.
"So good," he groans. "So damn good—"
"Harder—"
"The desk—"
"Can take it." I pull him closer. "I need harder."
He gives me harder.
Papers scatter. A stapler falls. Neither of us cares.
"Close," I gasp.
"Me too. Together?"
"Together."
We come at the same moment.
His groan mixing with my cry, both of us shaking on his very professional desk.
"Well," he manages. "That's certainly not standard procedure."
I laugh despite myself, kiss him, feel him softening inside me.
"Do I still get my loan?"
"Ms. Campbell." He grins. "You can have whatever you want."
The loan closes three weeks later.
Vincent recuses himself from the final paperwork—conflict of interest—but his colleague handles it seamlessly.
On moving day, he arrives with champagne and a box of his own things.
"Presumptuous," I say.
"Hopeful." He kisses me. "The commute from here is easier anyway."
"And the fact that I have a bigger bed?"
"Purely coincidental."
The craftsman in Dilworth is everything I dreamed.
Three bedrooms, that garden, and now—someone to share it with.
"Best investment of my life," I tell him one morning.
"The house?"
"You."
He laughs, pulls me close, proves once again that some deals are worth every penny.
The interest rate isn't bad either.