Page 45 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Their tongues teased and explored, and the sounds escaping their lips grew more indiscernible as each man began to drown in his urgency. Pitch wrapped his arms around the wide, steady shoulders of the ankou, clutching at his back.

‘Closer. I want you closer.’ He nipped at Silas’s lip. ‘I’m ready.’

The ankou’s strangled cry sent fiery pulses to Pitch’s groin.

Beyond the screen, the show hit a crescendo. The thud of drums and the clash of cymbals rang out as what seemed like an entire orchestra hit their notes. The audience sang along, bawdy and ravenous for the irreverent pantomime being played out. Silas embraced Pitch’s waist with his free arm. He pinned the daemon close as he turned them both about and planted his feet on the floor, his back against the chaise’s curved cushioning.

Silas made the adjustment without interrupting the kiss or taking his fingers from Pitch’s arse, using only his brute natural strength to carry off the move, as though the daemon were an extension of himself and they could not be parted. It was titillating beyond words.

‘Fucking gods,’ Pitch muttered against Silas’s mouth. At this rate, he would last all of a few seconds once he had the ankou inside him. ‘Silas –’ he hissed.

‘I know.’ He withdrew his fingers. His knuckles glanced against Pitch’s balls as he took hold of his own cock. ‘I want you to guide me. Is that all right?’

Sweet taints of the Archangels. This man’s tenderness was going to kill him.

Pitched swayed like he’d swilled the bottle of champagne alone, and his heart pounded in time with the music played for the stage. He nodded and searched for the prize beneath the taffeta, finding Silas’s hand wrapped about a heated, weighty pillar. He trembled as he lifted himself, tilted his hips, and drew the ankou’s straining cock to where widened muscle lay.

Silas’s whimper was a beautiful thing.

And Pitch could wait no longer.

He drove himself down onto Silas’s oiled length. Taking all of him at once. Crying out at the fullness, the burn that tore its way through his insides.

Silas threw back his head, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘Jesus.’

‘Fuck.’ Pitch hunched forward, impaled and aching.

Silas’s fingers had been nothing in comparison to his shaft. Pitch held still, waiting for the shock of sudden expansion to pass. Silas was shaking, Pitch could feel it through his cock, a delightful tremor that told a story of a man teetering on the brink. He raised his head. Silas was watching him now, his breath stuttered, his upper lip damp with sweat, his eyes blown wide with his arousal. And oh, how the man was aroused. The swell of him within seemed to take the daemon over.

Pitch found himself in this position rarely. Usually at the behest of a demanding angel who, it seems, had also enjoyed setting fire to Pitch’s soul as he fucked him.

The ankou smiled, just a quirk of his lips and Pitch twisted into sweet knots.Therewas the reason he wished Silas to fill him.NeededSilas to try and fill the hollows and cracks Pitch felt so thinned by. This was no battleground, here with the ankou. No harm would come from opening for this man.

Silas’s fingers brushed his cheek. The scent of him was near to overwhelming. Mingling with the rose oil the ankou’s desire was as sweet as any Pitch had known. He’d not fed from Silas since the encounter in Lady Howard’s carriage, not taken a sip as they shared kisses since.

He’d frightened himself with how thirsty he’d been in that carriage. How readily he could have abandoned himself to lust and drunk too deeply from Silas’s want. He’d blindfolded the man and held him at a distance. Pitch had not trusted himself to know when to stop. He’d been mad with the need to rid himself of the taste of the Alp, to take control once more. The ankou’s desire had freed him with breathtaking ease. Silas was delicious, in all senses of the word. His taste could so easily become an addiction, and that sort of hunger was dangerous. Pitch had seen the witless husks left behind when an incubus became an addict.

He would curb his craving, keep the impuissant need in check. Fucking could be enjoyed without gorging.

But by the gods, the oaf was not making it easy.

‘Do you think us close enough now?’ Silas was glassy-eyed and wearing that look he reserved so often for his broken prince. One of adoration and marvel.

‘Yes,’ Pitch whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Very much so.’ Silas was gravelly, choked by his desire.

He laid another kiss on Pitch’s lips. One that filtered right through the daemon, and shattered the stillness between them. Pitch rolled his hips, grinding up against Silas’s belly, pressing his own shaft into firm flesh.

Once the movement began all sense and sensibility fled.

‘Oh Christ.’ Silas exhaled. ‘Don’t stop.’

Pitch could not have stopped if Samyaza himself strode in right then and there. He cast his hips back and forth, eyes clenched shut, head lowered so he was almost cheek to cheek with Silas. He could feel the ankou’s breath against his ear, sending shivers down the side of his neck. Pitch shoved his hands under Silas’s shirt, needing to feel the firmness of that body, the surety of it. He splayed his hands, running them over the tight clench of Silas’s stomach and up into the dark licks of hair covering his chest. Pitch anchored himself there, where he could feel every breath Silas took and feel the faint thud of the ankou’s heart beneath his palms.

Pitch kept his movements even, controlled. He did not yet dare rise up and down. For once that began, he’d be shouting into his release, the moment would be over, and he was not willing to part with it yet. Pitch sank onto his haunches. He gasped as Silas’s length pushed deeper, teasing at the place within where mad abandon lay.

The ankou’s lids were heavy, and he groaned in time with each gyration. He let Pitch use him, keeping his own hips anchored. His hands stroked along Pitch’s back, running up over the stiff cage of the corset to brush at bare skin between sharp shoulder blades.