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I stretched my back and looked at my home. It was dark, and I wondered if Sylvie had already gone to bed or if I would be lucky enough to find her curled up on the couch with a book. Sometimes she’d venture out of her room, and we would spend a few hours reading by the fire or watching some mindless television.
As I walked up the steps, I brushed a hand over the colorful mums she’d potted and placed on each step. I liked the way they looked and would be sure to tell her so tomorrow.
I let a sharp whistle for Ed ring out. When he loped around the far side of the barn, I waited so he could follow me into the house. Tuckered out by the excitement of a family gathering at Highfield House, he made a circle around his dog bed, groaned once, and plopped down in the center.
The house was quiet, but a small light glowed in the kitchen. I carefully tucked away the to-go containers that Tootie had loaded me down with and pulled a small piece of paper out of a drawer and wrote Sylvie a quick note.
Daryl, Tootie insisted you have the leftovers in the fridge. She said you needed extras because you were eating for two. Apparently she thinks our baby is the size of Orson Welles and not an avocado. ~Oates
I paused and frowned down at my note.
I hoped she knew I was trying to be funny and not that I thought she looked like an oversize actor from before our time.
I carefully arranged the note next to my favorite coffee mug and a tea bag. I filled the kettle and set it on the stove so it would be ready for her if she wanted tea in the morning.
The Sugar Bowl would be closed the day after Thanksgiving, but work on the farm didn’t stop for post-holiday relaxing. I was itching to get to the bottom of whoever had been scouting our land.
I paused, listening again. My ears pricked, but I heard only the quiet creaking of an old farmhouse. I rolled my shoulders and scrubbed a hand across the back of my neck and squeezed, hoping to release the knot of tension that had formed there. Sylvie and I may have been living together, but we were existing apart, a fact that gnawed a hole in my gut.
I unlaced my boots and set them by the back door before climbing the stairs. I sure as fuck wasn’t looking forward to another night cramped in that too-small bed, but I took comfort in knowing Sylvie had no complaints about taking the primary bedroom.
Her nausea had seemed to ease up a bit, but she had informed me with a laugh that it had been replaced with the near-constant urge to use the bathroom. It may have been a small gesture, but giving up my bedroom had been the right call. It was the least I could do.
The stairs creaked under my weight as I climbed to the second floor. The old farmhouse walls were thin, and I could hear the faint hum of a fan and the rustle of bedsheets.
I paused in front of her door, indecision gnawing at me. I lifted my fist, prepared to gently knock and wish herHappy Thanksgivingand a good night.
An unfamiliar noise stopped me. I paused mid-knock, hearing a throaty moan as it floated through the door. A knot formed in my throat as blood surged to my cock. My dick twitched to life when I realized the hum had come from Sylvie.
I listened again.Notthe hum of a fan...vibrations.
Blood pounded between my ears as my cock thickened. An irrational surge of jealousy coursed through me.
Was she in there with someone?
“Oh Duke . . .”
My dick was rock hard, and I palmed it through my jeans. Hearing my name as breathless whispers on Sylvie’s lips was too much. I leaned closer to make out the muffled words.
“More, Duke. Yes. Oh my god.Yes.”
Holy fuck.
Unless Sylvie was behind the door with someone who shared my name, she was most definitely touching herself and thinking ofme.
My hand paused above the door handle. I wanted to barge in and give her the real thing, but her needy little hum stopped me. If she actually wanted me to touch her, she would have said something—would have somehow told me that she wanted me like she had that day on the beach.
Butfuck, if she wanted to get off on thoughts of me, I was fine with that too.
Instead of opening the door, I quickly undid my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, and pulled the zipper down. In one quick movement, I freed my aching cock and gave it a tight tug. I leaned one hand on the doorframe, bracing my weight, and the wood creaked beneath my palm. I stopped to listen.
“Yes, Duke, please keep going.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” I whispered.
I managed to keep my moan low. Sylvie’s vibrator hummed in the background as I spit on my palm and began to stroke. My dick pulsed, protesting against not feeling the real thing. I wanted to be buried in her hot, tight cunt—to hear those desperate moans as I matched her stroke for stroke.
When her moans became muffled, I imagined she had her face buried in a pillow.
