Page 43 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Silas took a firmer hold of Pitch’s warm, rigid flesh and rubbed his hand up and down its length. The prince uttered the most precious sounds of delight as he worked his way along the plentiful number of gleaming buttons on his bodice. One by one they came undone, from bottom to the top. Silas ached, watching the slow and steady undress. Pitch’s mouth was parted, his hips shifting lazily, his gaze heavy as he looked down at the ankou who had him in hand. He was forced to look away when he reached the last button on his gown, high on his neck, setting his chin at a tilt to reach it. Pitch shrugged the bodice open, wriggling it over his shoulders. He rocked harder into Silas’s handiwork, making soft sounds of approval.

Under the bodice, Pitch wore a simple black satin corset, with no chemise beneath. The padding that had been arranged to give the illusion of breasts now tumbled free, folded ribbons of material that Silas cast aside. There was no need for illusion here; what form the daemon had chosen for himself was all he desired. Pitch’s skin, normally pale as snow, was red where the fabric had pressed him. His nipples were bright pink, their nubs flattened by constant pressure. Pitch arched his back, still working himself free of the bodice’s sleeves. Silas sat up, needing to be closer to where muscle hinted beneath smooth white skin devoid of any hint of hair. He helped Pitch rid himself of a cloying sleeve, and as the daemon shifted to free himself at last of the bodice, his chest moved so damned close to Silas’s mouth, there was only one course of action a man could undertake. He took his lips to one of the bared nipples.

Pitch hissed between clenched teeth, tossing the bodice aside. Silas worked his tongue around a tightening bud of flesh. The prince slid his fingers into Silas’s hair, holding him fast, and rocking his hips into the ankou’s grip. The taffeta swished around them, the hush like the distant crawl of a wave on the shore.

‘Harder.’

Silas took the sensitive skin between his teeth and bit down. The whimper it elicited was enough to send a man mad with want. He quickened his strokes, tightened his grip, felt the ripples and ridges on the daemon’s prick and savoured every one.

At a distance, the crowd broke into applause, shouting their delight at whatever fancy was upon the stage. The reminder that an audience was so desperately close caused Silas to shiver, his cock to pulse. It was a fucking delight to throw all caution to the wind. To be so overcome he could not have cared if he were laid bare on that stage, so long as Pitch was still astride him.

The prince’s mutterings were growing more urgent.

Dear god, Silas longed to hear him lose himself to ecstasy. Sheer ecstasy this time, though. Not as it had been in the carriage, where the daemon had worked his own release and his cries had been tinged with darkness, with hurt.

Silas loosened his hold and dragged the pads of his fingers over that most sensitive furrow that ran along the underside of Pitch’s cock. He knew that place well upon himself. That delicate skin where the nerves lay so close to the surface.

‘Do you like that?’ he murmured against Pitch’s chest.

But he needn’t have asked. The sounds coming from the man who rode him were answer enough. Tight, exasperated gasps mingled with whimpers.

‘If you dare let go, I’ll…’ What the daemon would do was lost to the rise of another moan.

Silas, panting against warm damp skin, kissed his way from one nipple to the other, a breathy touch of lips that had the prince trembling and jerking. The abandoned swollen nub of flesh was glistening and red from Silas’s attentions. Pitch throbbed in his hand and writhed against him. He was mumbling, barely coherent, but Silas heard enough.

The prince wanted him. Needed him. Did not want him to let go.

The blood roared through Silas’s veins. There was a pressure building down low, a pulse at the base of his shaft that would soon become unstoppable.

‘Come closer,’ Silas whispered.

He wrapped his arms about Pitch’s backside, gathering up lengths and lengths of sublime cloud-grey fabric and urged his hips forward. The daemon obliged. Silas’s breath hitched as their cocks met.

He was so stiff it pained him, but it was the right sort of pain. One that intensified as he allowed his thoughts to move to what Pitch had asked of him. He wanted Silas to take him.

Christ almighty, it had him breathless and terrified of where all of this would ultimately lead.

Silas wrapped his hand around them both, his thumb hooked about his blood-taut member, while the rest of his fingers cradled Pitch’s cock. Silas resumed the slow up and down, a caress that pleased them both in unison.

‘Oh fucking gods, Sickle.’ Pitch drew his hands from Silas’s hair and grabbed at his shoulders, digging his fingers in. ‘You’re a fiend in a gentleman’s clothing.’

With a grin painting his lips, Silas firmed his grip. He tilted his hips back and forth, rubbing their lengths together. The result was sheer heaven, enough to make eyes roll and nonsense flow from open lips. But as simple as it would be to bring them both to climax there and then, Silas stilled and released his hold. A disgruntled harrumph came from his daemon.

‘What an odd day to die again,’ Pitch grumbled.

Silas laughed, his nerves making the sound waver. ‘I have not forgotten what you want.’ He took a breath and sent his hand to trace a path beneath skirts and petticoats, seeking out the jut of a hip bone and finding a way down to the swell of a tight arse cheek. Silas closed his eyes. He was no stranger to the feel of a man. He knew it. When he’d lain with Charlie, it had not been without its pleasures, but he’d been like one of the actors upon the stage. Playing a part. Not truly himself.

The room shook with another rowdy cheer from the crowd, as though urging him on.

He teased his fingers in between swells of velvet skin.

Pitch sighed. ‘That’s it.’

He leaned into Silas’s shoulder, his arse lifting, inviting the ankou to explore deeper. Silas needed no encouragement, easing his fingers down to find the clenched swirl of muscle. The ankou teased a fingertip at Pitch’s entrance. The prince sucked in a breath, and Silas felt him tense.

‘Is everything all right?’ Silas opened his eyes.

Pitch was clutching at one side of his gown.