Page 153 of The Death Wish

He pressed his finger against the ankou’s lips. Attempting to hold back all that threatened to overwhelm them.

Pitch was not ready. ‘Don’t speak of it, not yet.’

If this were fantasy, an illusion or dream, then let it stay so. If this were the delusion of a dying daemon, then so it should remain.

Silas leaned in to kiss him and enter him. The desperate urgency melted away as Pitch was opened wide; the ankou’s thickness blissfully painful.

The fantasy held.

Thank the gods. What lay beyond this bed was large and terrifying, and no place Pitch wished to visit until he must.

Theirs was a slow union, a deliberate drive of body against body. The hurt was there; the ankou was large and Pitch not nearly readied enough. But the pain was exquisite and raw, and so very welcome. Bringing him to life.

Silas covered him, took him slowly, deeply and with his usual cascade of beautiful whispers.

Neither spoke of the differences to be found in one another; the bruises and marks and stains that had come from that world beyond the sheets.

All that mattered right now was the familiar.

The synchronicity of their bodies. The touch of tongues and fumble of fingers as they sought to know each other everywhere, all at once.

Pitch bit at Silas’s lip, and his ankou obliged with a deeper thrust of his hips; a quickening of the pace.

They fucked in their own little world. Their haven of silk and satin, and each other. He pressed his hands to Silas’s cheeks, holding his gaze as they moved in gasping unison towards that highest, most glorious place of all. Pitch tried hard not to close his eyes as his climax threatened. He wanted to watch Silas come, and the ankou was close.

They grunted and hissed, snarling into their pleasure; no less bestial than animals in the forest. Silas’s steady thrusts broke Pitch apart in all the best ways. He was overwhelmed by his release; an avalanche of ecstasy that tore frantic cries from the bottom of his lungs.

Silas praised Pitch as he spilled, the ankou’s voice strangled by the thundering approach of his own climax. Pitch blinked his eyes open, panting, his body jerking, his prick still spitting the remnants of his load.

‘Now, let me see you,’ he gasped.

He tightened himself around Silas’s cock, and watched as the ankou toppled over the precipice.

Silas came; his bellow primeval and covetous. His last thrust seemed sure to split Pitch in half. He grabbed Pitch’s shoulders, using the leverage to bury himself deeper still, his body shuddering. His release was a torrent; filling his vessel to overflowing. His hips thrust one more time; driving his cock through the mess he’d made, the sounds of sopping flesh disgraceful.

Spent, Silas collapsed his weight upon Pitch. He growled as he ran his tongue over Pitch’s collarbone, licking at the sweat there, one final delicious torment. They both twitched and shivered, and groaned curses. They reeked of spill and exertion. Silas’s powerful thrusts had driven Pitch up the mattress; his head glanced at the headboard. At some point during the rut he was fairly certain he’d heard one of the mattress slats break.

The fuck was rough and vulgar; it was utter perfection.

‘Well, that was nice,’ Pitch said.

‘Fucking hell, wasn’t it?’

Silas drew Pitch with him as he rolled onto his side. He sought to keep them joined, but he was limp, and Pitch’s arse cheeks too flooded to prevent his cock sliding free with a slick whisper.

‘Leaving me so soon?’

Silas burst out laughing. ‘Fear not, I shall return.’ He ran his hand along Pitch’s side, chuckling as the touch made him shiver. ‘Just give me a moment.’

Someone cleared their throat. Someone not in their haven. ‘I’m afraid you don’t have a moment, my lords.’

Gods, Pitch knew that voice. But it was impossible.

He pushed back the covers, blinking into the sudden brightness. ‘Fuck. You?’

‘Yes, I, your highness.’

Silas sat up, hair every which way, throwing his arm in front of Pitch. ‘Stay back. Good god…what are you?’