Page 46 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Silas was hungry with desire, there was no doubt of it. His stomach was taut beneath Pitch’s fingers, and his face was flushed with yearning. But he was not forceful. He did not rush.

Instead, he relinquished control. Handed it to the daemon, who needed it most.

Pitch’s cock jerked hard, his balls tightening. He was going to lose the control he’d been given very, very soon. The base of his spine was afire; all manner of fervid sounds were pouring from him. He rose up, dragging himself along the length of Silas’s cock before plunging down. The ankou shouted at the roof, his fingers digging into the corset. Pitch rose up again, and drove Silas deep inside, shuddering as he found the rhythm which banished everything but this painful ecstasy between them.

Just as he’d desired.

He rode Silas faster, his entire body bristling, burning with the galloping approach of climax.

But he needed more.

He wanted to ache for days. So when those days darkened he’d remember this. Remember it was possible to feel so godsdamned euphoric.

‘Your turn,’ he whispered. ‘I need you to fuck me hard as you can.’

The ankou didn’t hesitate, gathering his lover to him, rising to his feet easily. As though Pitch were light as a lost soul. The daemon gasped and wrapped his legs tight about broad hips, panting like a hunt-weary hound.

The ankou did not put him on his back, as Pitch thought perhaps he may.

Silas knew better.

He kicked away his fallen trousers, and carried Pitch over near to the bamboo screen. The late-night crowd were singing themselves hoarse. He leaned Pitch’s shoulders against the wall, pressing one hand alongside the daemon’s head, the other supporting the small of his back.

‘Tell me if it is too much.’

It could never be too much. Pitch wanted every inch.

Silas thrust into him. Hard, precise jerks that sent the tip of his cock slamming into that riotously sensitive place, high inside the daemon’s passage. Pitch squealed, clutching at Silas’s shirt, legs squeezing like a vice around his waist.

‘Is this what you want?’ the ankou panted.

‘Yes!’ Pitch shouted. ‘Yes.’

The pounding was relentless, its tempo unfaltering. Pitch’s vision was a blur, his head filled with a roar that did not come from the jubilant showgoers.

Gods, he was going to erupt, shatter into a thousand pieces.

Dribbled words escaped him. He had no clue what he was muttering, and it didn’t fucking matter. So long as Silas did…not…stop.

Another brutal, sweet thrust and Pitch was lost.

He screamed, or Silas did. Someone was losing their mind. Likely they both were. Silas definitely swore, his body rigid. He slammed himself deep. And Pitch came.

Fierce and jarring and utterly without elegance. It was glorious. Eyes closed, body jerking like a fish on a hook, he fell into the abandon of release. Letting all guards down. Giving in to the ridiculous motions. Turning to jelly, sobbing a little. Because it was safe to do so. Because it was Silas who held him.

Pitch bucked and hissed like a wildcat as he spent himself. The waves tore through him. Crashing and rolling in unrelenting flows. He gritted his teeth and relished it, eyes still tightly closed. Gods, he was drenched. Dripping. The skirt was sticking to him, and Silas’s spend was hot and thick between his cheeks.

He opened his eyes to find they were on the floor. Or at least Silas was, on his knees, with Pitch still straddling his lap. His head rested against Pitch’s shoulder, and he gulped in heavy breaths, his body still twitching.

The music had stopped, the murmur of the crowd far too quiet. If the patrons hadn’t heard at least a little of a daemon and ankou’s mating cry, they’d be lucky. Pitch laughed, and his amusement made him jerk. Rubbing the petticoats against a painfully sensitive cock. He whimpered.

‘Are you all right?’ Silas raised his head. He was red as a beet; a bead of sweat dangled from his chin. ‘My bloody legs gave way.’

‘I am far more than all right.’

‘That was…truly…’ Silas pressed his forehead to Pitch’s damp chest, his own chest heaving. ‘Good god, Pitch.’

He grinned into the ankou’s damp, mussed hair. They cradled one another in near silence, their attempts to catch their respective breaths loud and rasping, now the music was quieted. The show had come to an end at some point along the way.