The crisp October morning bathed Little Knobton in a golden haze, the hills of Midlingtonshire standing as silent witnesses to six months of upheaval. Samantha Farnsworth stood in the grand foyer of the Farnsworth manor, her six-foot frame poised with a quiet triumph. Her divorce from Charles was nearing its end, a protracted battle of lawyers and leverage that had forced compromises, she’d relinquished stakes in some of the estate’s peripheral companies but retained full control of those holding the village properties, including Emma’s cottage and a dozen others. The victory tasted bittersweet, but it was hers.
Today, she supervised the removal company hauling her possessions from the manor she’d shared with Charles for decades. The oak-paneled walls echoed with the clatter of boxes and the grunts of movers as they carted out her furniture, antique chairs, a sleek desk, crates of books and clothes. Charles stood by the staircase, his muscular frame tense in a sweater and jeans, his mid-60s vigor shadowed by a scowl. Beside him, Sheila hovered, her slim figure clad in a tight sweater and jeans, a massive platinum engagement ring glinting on her left hand, a cluster of large diamonds that caught the light with every gesture. The ring, a recent addition, marked her new status as Charles’s fiancée, a defiant stake in his future.
Samantha, in a tailored coat and scarf, directed the movers with a calm efficiency, but her eyes danced with mischief as she caught Charles’s glare. “Careful with that table, lads, it’s older than Charles’s excuses,” she called, then turned to him with a grin. “Don’t look so glum, darling. You’ve still got Sheila to keep the bed warm, and that ring’s a nice consolation prize.”
Charles’s jaw tightened, but Sheila smirked, slipping an arm around his waist. “She’s got a point, love. We’re doing fine.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Samantha said, her tone light but edged. “Sheila, you’ve upgraded from secretary to lady of the manor in record time. Quite the climb, hope the altitude doesn’t make you dizzy.”
Sheila laughed, unfazed, her enhanced breasts pressing against Charles as she leaned in. “I manage. You’ve got your village empire now plenty to keep you busy.”
“True,” Samantha replied, watching a mover heft a box of her china. “I’ll miss the view, though, watching Charles squirm was half the fun. Enjoy the quiet, you two.”
Charles grunted, crossing his arms. “Get on with it, Sam. The sooner you’re out, the better.”
She winked. “Patience, ex-husband. The van’s almost full.”
The banter was sharp but oddly cordial, a release of old tensions, a nod to the new lines drawn. As the last box was loaded, Samantha stepped outside, the removal van’s engine rumbling. She waved, mock-cheerful. “Ta-ta, Charles. Don’t trip over Sheila’s ambition on your way to bed.”
He flipped her off, but Sheila tugged him inside, her laughter trailing as the door shut. The van pulled away, and Samantha exhaled, a weight lifting as she drove to Richard’s cottage, her new home.
Inside the manor, Charles slumped into an armchair, the silence oppressive without Samantha’s barbs. Sheila knelt before him, her tartan skirt swapped for jeans, but that ring, platinum and ostentatious, still gleamed. “You’re wound tight,” she said, voice soft. “Let me fix that.”
He eyed her, tension easing as she unzipped his jeans, her slim hands deft. “You don’t have to,”
“I want to,” she cut in, freeing his cock, already stirring under her touch. She ran her fingers along his length, thick, veined, familiar, stroking gently, coaxing him to hardness. Her engagement ring brushed his thigh, cool metal against warm skin, and he groaned, sinking deeper into the chair.
Sheila leaned in, her breath hot as she kissed the tip, lips soft and teasing. She licked a slow stripe up the underside, tongue flat, tracing every ridge, savoring the salt of him. His hands fisted the armrests, a low growl escaping as she swirled around the head, sucking lightly, then deeper, taking him inch by inch. Her mouth was warm, wet, a perfect fit, and she hummed, the vibration rippling through him. She pulled back, lips glistening, and stroked him with both hands, slow, firm pumps, watching his face, his eyes half-lidded with need.
“Fuck, Sheila,” he muttered, hips twitching, and she grinned, diving back in. She took him fully now, throat relaxing, nose brushing his pelvis as she bobbed, her tongue working the base, relentless. Saliva slicked her chin, but she didn’t care, her focus was him, his pleasure, her power. She cupped his balls, rolling them gently, nails grazing just enough to tease, and he bucked, a guttural sound tearing free. She pulled off, gasping, and pumped him fast, hand twisting, slick with spit, then sucked again, hollowing her cheeks, her pace unrelenting.
His hands tangled in her hair, guiding but not forcing, and she moaned around him, the sound pushing him closer. She felt him swell, thicken, the telltale pulse, and slowed, edging him, lips teasing the tip, tongue flicking the slit until he was panting, begging. “Please, oh, fuck, don’t stop.”
She obliged, taking him deep again, throat tight, her rhythm fierce, up, down, sucking hard, her hands stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach. He came with a roar, hips jerking, spilling hot and thick down her throat. She swallowed every drop, milking him through it, her tongue lapping until he softened, spent, trembling. She pulled back, wiping her mouth with a smirk, and sat back on her heels, ring glinting as she rested a hand on his knee.
“Better?” she asked, voice husky.
He laughed, ragged. “You’re a fucking miracle. Future’s not so bad with you around.”
She kissed his thigh, lingering. “Told you. We’ll build something new, together.”
He pulled her up, kissing her deep, tasting himself on her lips, a promise of resilience, a spark in the ashes of Farn Hollow.
Across the village, Samantha arrived at Richard’s cottage, now theirs, where the removal van idled. Richard directed the movers as they unloaded boxes into each room, kitchen, living room, bedroom, study. The stone walls and wooden floors welcomed her possessions, a blend of her past and their future. Once the van rumbled off, they stood amid the chaos, boxes stacked like a maze.
“Home,” she said, her hand brushing his.
He grinned, pulling her close. “Let’s make it ours.”
They started in the kitchen, unpacking dishes and pots, the clink of china a rhythm. Halfway through, Richard pressed her against the counter, his six-foot-four frame towering as he kissed her, hard, hungry. She yanked his shirt off, her coat already shed, and he tugged her jeans down, panties with them. He lifted her onto the counter, spreading her thighs, and entered her fast, vigorous, urgent, his thrusts rocking her against the edge. She gasped, legs wrapping him, her first orgasm hitting quick, a sharp clench as he pounded, relentless. He came soon after, a groan against her neck, and they laughed, breathless, the kitchen christened.
In the living room, they tackled books and photos, wildlife shots of his, her old novels. Boxes emptied, and he pulled her to the rug, stripping her sweater, her bra, her skin bare to the cool air. She straddled him, riding hard, her hips grinding as he gripped her ass, thrusting up to meet her. She came twice, fast, then slower, a rolling wave, and he followed, spilling inside her, their sweat mingling on the worn fibers.
The bedroom was next, clothes, linens, her jewelry box. As the last box flattened, he bent her over the bed, jeans around her ankles, and took her from behind, quick, brutal, his hands on her hips. She moaned, pushing back, climaxing hard as he drove deep, his release a shudder that left them panting atop the bare mattress.
Finally, the study, her desk, his files. Boxes cleared, he pinned her to the wall, lifting her leg, fucking her standing, fast, fierce, her cries echoing as she came, nails in his shoulders. He finished with a growl, their bodies slick, the room theirs.
Exhausted, they collapsed on the sofa, naked and sated, boxes gone. “Ours,” he said, kissing her.
“Ours,” she echoed, the village properties hers, the future theirs, a new beginning carved from the ruins of the old.
Farn Hollow 
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