The Tight End Around the House

The first thing Hank Granger saw when he opened the door wasn't the table set, or the warm smell of garlic and roast vegetables, or even how clean the apartment now was.

It was his new roommate.

Portia.

Bent forward in the middle of the living room, palms braced on her knees, rear arched high in the air as she worked through some kind of stretch. The pink sports bra clung to her chest like a second skin, darkened here and there with sweat. The shorts she wore were so thin they might as well not have been there at all—sheer fabric that left the black thong underneath flashing plain as day.

She gasped, snapping upright, her cheeks coloring as though she'd been caught doing something indecent. "Oh! I thought I had more time—I was just finishing up a workout."

Hank froze. He had seen plenty in his life, on job sites, in locker rooms, with Donna in their younger years—but there was something about this moment that knocked the wind out of him. Maybe it was the youth radiating off her, the bounce in her damp hair, or the fact that she was dressed like that in his space, barefoot and sweating, like she belonged here.

Before he could even find words, she hurried over, bright-eyed and beaming. "You're home! Let me take that." Her fingers brushed his shoulder as she slipped the strap of his bag free, tugged his jacket off with surprising care. "You should relax. Supper's almost ready."

"You don't have to do that," he managed, throat dry.

"You've worked hard today. Let me help."

And damn it, he let her. He let this girl—barely older than his daughter—fuss over him like she had every right. He tried not to notice the sway of her body as she disappeared into the bedroom with his things, tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone had greeted him like this.

When she returned, it was with a drink in hand and that same wide smile. She set it down in front of him as though it were a ritual, then perched lightly on the edge of the couch. "How was your day?"

Before he could answer, Sarah finally slipped inside, closing the door behind her, smirking like she'd been watching all along. "He was commanding," she teased. "Really commanding. I loved it. You should keep that up at home too, Hank."

Portia flushed, her eyes darting down shyly. Sarah swept her gaze around the room, grinning. "And look at this place. It feels alive with you here, Portia. You've made it into a home."

The girl glowed under the praise. "Thank you," she whispered, as if it meant the world.

Then she bent by her suitcase, drawing out a little sundress Sarah must have helped her pick, and held it up against herself. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes catching Hank's. "I think I'll go change. I'm sure you don't want to stare at me dressed like this all night."

She laughed lightly, self-conscious. "I love working out, but… it's lonely by myself. You look so fit, Hank. Maybe sometime we could work out together?"

Hank felt something in his chest shift. He gave her a small nod, and her face lit up as though he'd handed her the moon. She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him with Sarah, the smell of dinner, and a gnawing heat in his gut that hadn’t been there when he walked through the door.

Nestled on the couch, Hank enjoyed his beer. He should have gotten up to get changed, put on something more casual, but the experience, the very idea of being met at the door by a beautiful woman who insisted he sit down and enjoy a drink was more intoxicating than the ****. It was like someone had flipped a switch and suddenly he was getting to experience fantasies that he would never have had the courage to articulate, no less play out.

Sensing his solitary enjoyment of the moment, Sarah gave him a kiss on the top of his head and vanished into the bedroom. Their bedroom. She would no doubt be looking to find more comfortable clothes herself. Taking another swig of his beer, an image of her, naked, picking out her clothes slowly, moving as if to the beat of an unheard song, ran through his imagination. That had been happening a lot that day, Sarah invading his daydreams. It didn't help that she was around all the time, teasing him when they were alone, taking his commands as if he were Moses on Mount Sinai. She had awakened feelings in him that he had never felt before, feelings of power, not to lord over someone, but to take care of them.

He had to admit that he was holding Sarah closer and closer to his heart, the more time they spent together.

He finished his beer just as Sarah returned to the room. She had ditched her office wear for a black camisole that was thin enough to leave nothing to the imagination, paired with soft grey shorts that rode high on her hips. Hank had worked alongside her for years, had seen her in business blouses and pencil skirts, and only now realized how dangerous her body really was. She curled onto the loveseat with the same easy confidence she brought to board meetings, but here there was nothing corporate about her—just tanned skin, legs smooth and bare.

Portia, when she returned, looked different too. Fresh from the shower, her short, curly hair damp, face glowing, she had changed into a slim little sundress patterned with tiny flowers. The fabric clung tightly, but not so much as to be restrictive, showing off the toned legs he hadn’t realized she possessed when they first met, and breasts so large they made him do a double take. Had they always been that size? He caught himself staring and reminded himself again—she was barely older than Juniper.

After Hank finally put on some more casual clothes himself, they ate together. Portia served like she'd been waiting her whole life to do it, placing the roasted chicken and vegetables with shy precision, checking his plate first before her own. Sarah teased him, kept calling him "sir" as they ate, but her eyes softened when he talked about the dustup at the site—how the union rep had tried to stall a project over safety measures already addressed.

"It was ridiculous," Hank muttered, shaking his head after a large, delicious bite of the meal. "We had triple-checked everything, but he still wanted to grandstand in front of the workers. I swear, half the job is babysitting."

Sarah leaned forward, her voice gentle, reaching across the table and touching his hand. "You handled it, though. I saw it. You didn't back down, but you didn't lose your temper either. That's real leadership, Hank."

Portia nodded earnestly, her brown eyes fixed on him. "I don't really know much about construction, but I'd feel safe on your crew. Honestly."

The words shouldn't have meant much, coming from someone who probably couldn't tell a hardhat from a harness, but they hit him like a shot of whiskey—warm, immediate, settling deep.

After dinner, he claimed the remote. Football—always football, if he had the choice. It had been his game since high school, since Friday nights under the lights when he'd been the biggest guy on the line. Donna had humored him through the years, sometimes even gotten into it, but she had never shared his pulse-pounding, throat-tight love for the sport.

Sarah and Portia, though—they poured themselves onto the couch on either side of him, wine glasses in hand, and seemed to drink up his excitement as if it were their own. Sarah asked sharp little questions about plays, eager to understand. Portia clapped when his team converted a third down, then flushed with embarrassment at her own enthusiasm until he laughed and told her she'd gotten it right.

When his team scored a touchdown, both women squealed. Sarah threw her arms around him, kissing him full on the mouth before he could react. Portia leaned in too, brushing a kiss against his cheek, then immediately pulled back, her face crimson.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Hank chuckled, still tasting Sarah on his lips. "Don't be. We're just celebrating. You just got carried away."

The rest of the game blurred in warmth and noise—Sarah's thigh pressed firm against his, Portia's bare shoulder brushing his arm. Their laughter rose when he laughed. Their groans echoed his when the ref blew a call. By the time the fourth quarter ticked down, Hank felt drunk on more than the wine.

Donna had loved him once, but never like this—never with this raw, giddy enthusiasm, never with this glowing youth curled against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was twice their age, old enough to be their father, but God help him, the contrast thrilled him. Their energy, their bodies, their sheer presence—it was intoxicating.

When the game ended in victory, they hugged again. Sarah kissed him, slow this time, and Portia slipped her arms around both of them in a long, clinging embrace. He felt the press of her barely contained breasts, the heat of her young, fit body, and to his shame, his loins stirred. Right there, with Sarah watching.

Portia uttered her thanks to the pair for taking her in, eyes shining, before retreating to set up the couch. Sarah tugged him toward the bedroom, but Hank lingered, watching as Portia bent low to spread a blanket. Her sundress rode up, flashing the curve of her thighs, and he felt another pang of heat, unwelcome but undeniable. Maybe they should find a bigger place, with another bedroom… though as he stood there, watching her reach, he wondered if there wasn't a kind of unspoken benefit to this arrangement.

As if she could sense his thoughts, Portia glanced back, caught his eye, and winked. Then—God help him—she wiggled her rear just slightly before continuing with the bedding. Hank's throat went dry. He felt a pulse of shame, but also a dangerous flicker of want.

When he finally pulled himself away and entered the bedroom, Sarah was waiting—lounging across the sheets in sheer black lingerie, a lace bra that barely contained her curves, panties cut high on her hips.

He climbed into bed beside her, his body still keyed up.

"We should be quiet," he muttered, half-ashamed, half-aroused.

Sarah smiled, slow and wicked. "Pretty sure Portia won't mind."

The thought hit him harder than he wanted to admit. Because a part of him wondered if she was right.