Page 25 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Pitch growled inwardly, admonishing himself. One little incident with a saggy-titted Alp and he was all jittery and dry-mouthed.

It wouldn’t do.

He swayed his hips as he joined Fothergill by the wicker-and-pine drinks cabinet. The lecherous fellow’s eyes barely travelled above Pitch’s hips until he was near enough he could reach for the offered glass of sherry.

Gods, the man was generous with his pours.

Likely the sherry would not mix well with the champagne of earlier, but needs must. Pitch took a long draw of the sickly liquid, far longer than any lady would have done, but he had always thought the restraints of womanhood ridiculous and faintly cruel.

As the sherry slid down his throat, the enchantment rose from him like steam leaving the skin after a hot bath.

Fothergill hummed into his mouthful, the incubus touch reaching him almost at once. He smacked his lips, running the back of his hand across his mouth, and set down his glass with a thud, the sherry sloshing over the rim. The man, no gentleman at all, moved fast as a snake, and just as unwelcomed, to grab Pitch’s wrist, who barely managed not to punch him in the face.

‘My dear,’ Fothergill slurred, drunk on liquor and enchantment both. ‘I have to say, you are exquisite. How is it that we’ve not met before? How do you know the family?’

‘Through Edward, actually. There was a time last summer when I thought perhaps I might become Mrs Charters.’

A strange growl came from the man. ‘What a waste that would have been.’ His free hand slid around Pitch’s waist, and he urged the daemon closer. Well, it was less an urge than an insistence, and Pitch was not in the mood for being dragged about. He took a step back and did not hide the fact he was strong enough to do so. The journey was short though, his skirt kissing at the desk, the backs of his legs doing the same a moment later.

Fothergill’s eyes narrowed. His grin was sly and slippery and not terribly nice. He was enjoying seeing his quarry cornered. ‘Come now, no need to play coy here. I see clearly that you want this, as I do. Let us not waste too much time with false protests.’

To be fair, the enchantment would have the man believing his desires were returned, so it was not as dreadful a statement as it sounded. But Pitch was beginning to think he’d been too heavy-handed with this chap.

Fothergill’s desires held a tinge of darkness to them. Many purebreds’ did, and under the right conditions they could be intoxicating. But they were not to Pitch’s taste today. The sooner this was done with, the better.

He allowed Fothergill to kiss his neck. Far too much tongue was involved, but he was distracted by the clock on the mantel, its embellished hands declaring it was half past the hour of seven.

It wasn’t late yet. If he got this over with now and headed back to the Village at once, Silas would likely still be awake and could help him out of these layers. Or perhaps the ankou was too busy for that. He’d evidently been too occupied to say goodbye.

A sharp curl of anger ignited, with the help of the tincture and the sherry and the arsehole who had placed his hands on Pitch’s hips and was sliding his lips along Pitch’s jaw. A kiss was dangerously close, wanted or not.

He suspected Fothergill would prefer not.

‘You have quite taken my breath away.’ Pitch giggled, and tilted his head back. He pressed a fingertip to Fothergill’s lips, urging the man back, and when there was some give, he wiggled free of where he was pinned against the desk. Fothergill was not impressed, making a disgruntled sound as Pitch swished his way to stand at the furthest window. ‘Are you certain no one will disturb us?’

He stared down into the courtyard. It was empty save for a small pile of horse shit off to one side, yet to be cleaned up by the stablehands.

‘I am quite certain. I told Mrs Charters I would be a while yet with some paperwork. A lie, I’ll admit. I’m not one for cards. This is far more to my liking.’ The hunger was evident in Fothergill’s tone. Pitch had stoked this fire; now he’d best use it to his advantage.

He hummed, a noncommittal sound Fothergill would undoubtedly take as confirmation that rough flirtation was to Miss Cargill’s liking too.

‘This is certainly much more interesting than any of the parties I attended with Edward,’ Pitch said, watching the shadows that leaned into the alleyway. He half expected someone to walk by, with one of the dark patches seemingly shaped as though it had a head and arms. ‘A sweet man, but rather dull and terribly troubled.’ It did not come easily, to speak of the lieutenant so disparagingly. ‘I am not at all surprised to hear you’ve arranged for him to be shipped off to an asylum.’

Fothergill’s laugh was coarse. ‘Where did you hear such nonsense? He’s gone to the Continent.’ He came to stand behind Pitch at the window, and his hands found the daemon’s waist once more, slipping to lie over Pitch’s belly. Shrugging off the sense of being far too surrounded by the man, Pitch laid his hands over Fothergill’s. The tincture still had his pulse at a race, or perhaps that came from how tightly he was being held. Fothergill moved about, angling himself around the swell of Pitch’s dress. The jut of his prick rubbed at the side of the daemon’s hip. It took a measure of self-control not to send the man flying out the bloody window.

‘Come now,’ Pitch said, a little roughly. ‘You are about to have me over this desk. I suspect we can share a little honesty between us.’

The man groaned and buried his face into the curve of Pitch’s shoulder. ‘You look like a princess and have the lips of a whore. Good god, what have I done to deserve this?’ He peppered kisses around the narrow glimpse of bare flesh at the top of Pitch’s high collar.

‘Absolutely nothing,’ Pitch muttered.

‘What was that, my dear?’ The dab of a wet tongue found the back of Pitch’s ear.

‘Keep going.’

‘With pleasure.’

The man’s hips began to move, light thrusts against Pitch’s back. He kept his eyes fixed on the view. Not long now, and the location of the asylum would be his, and he could summon Isaac and return to the Village, where he would sink into the deepest tub the Lady could provide. He adored this dress, but with this leech’s handprints all over it now, he was not so keen to keep it on.