Page 2 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

That memory had much of Pitch’s bleariness vanishing now. His appetite for sweet things had taken a severe dive since the Fulbourn, but that was not to say all his desires were subdued.

Surely it was not too early to roll over and nudge the ankou awake? Silas lay behind him, somewhere in the ridiculous amount of coverings and throws the bed was piled with. The bed was enormous, enough so that even the ankou with his heft and spread could stretch out or curl up to one side and disappear beneath the blankets. Pitch listened for sign of breathing, but Silas was remarkably quiet when he slept and did not toss and turn anywhere near so much as Pitch. He knew himself to be a terror to sleep with– actuallysleepwith– which was why, normally, he’d have his lovers vacate the bed as soon as they were done.

He exhaled, grinning. His preference for sleeping alone had taken on a mighty transformation of late.

Pitch rolled onto his back, his head slipping between two of many pillows, blocking his view of Silas’s side of the bed. The sheet clung to his naked body like the wrappings on a damp gift, teasing at a half-roused cock that saluted the morning. Pitch touched himself, a quick slip of fingers along hardening flesh.

‘Sickle,’ he whispered. ‘I have quite the stiffness that needs tending.’ Pitch’s mood was light despite his tiredness. His dreams had been so dull as to be forgotten already, with no nightmares of burning angels to speak of. ‘I wish those hands of yours upon me…mouth too, if you’d like your breakfast in bed.’

He expected a snort at that, a chuckle even, but no sound came from the ankou. Pitch spread his leg, stretching pointed toes, searching for sign of the oaf beneath the copious, heavy coverings.

‘Did you hear me?’ He rolled to his side when his reconnaissance turned up nothing of note: no solidity, no give of flesh or grunt of irritation at being disturbed. ‘I have need of you, Mr Mercer.’

For carnal pleasure of course. That was all. Silas could cuddle him and whisper silly things as he was wont to do, if he must. Pitch did not care either way.

He wriggled from beneath his pillowy confines, blinking into the dullness. The curtains were a burgundy so deep as to appear black in such light, and well suited to holding back the day.

A day likely wet and miserable, thanks in no small part to Matilda. The elemental had added her damp touch to their fortifications, for visitors were far less likely to come knocking in such inclement weather.

Pitch propped himself onto an elbow and saw at once that he was alone.

His gut swirled with unpleasantness, but he could not pretend the silent wildness was to blame for this ill-feeling. The emptiness of the room swooped in at him, and he pulled the covers closer to his chest.

So it was the click of the door that had woken him, the ankou doing his best to be quiet while he slipped away. The same thing had happened yesterday, too. Silas gone, the cool sheets telling Pitch he’d been abandoned for a while before he woke.

He admonished himself for being so bothered, but need Silas be so damned furtive? Not so much as a pat to the backside and agood morning?For Pitch knew Silas liked touching his arse. It was an established fact. The ankou liked to do other things to it as well, though he’d showed his full appreciation for Pitch’s fine entrance only once since they’d arrived here in this overcrowded place.

Tilly’s love of a game of hide-and-seek had the all-too-sensible Silas fearing she would be scarred for life should she decide the cavernous space beneath their bed was a prime location for concealment.

Yet another reason the dryad brat and her family should leave as soon as possible. Pitch was craving a repeat of the languid, slow fucking that had come the night after the debacle of the tub. A lavish affair, unhurried and thorough, exploring every inch of each other. The exact opposite of the whirlwind of the Crimson Bow, but each encounter as superb as one another.

Feasts for an incubus.

But he’d not fed on Silas at the Bow, nor had he here. Sating his incubus blood might see Pitch rid himself of his exhaustion, but the Alp daemon’s marks ran deep. He could not bring himself to take… as he’d been taken from. Knowing first-hand that to feed upon another was to dominate, to possess, to steal control. He’d not do that to Silas. Not again, at least. No matter how willing he knew the ankou to be.

Pitch punched at Silas’s pillow as his mood tugged him downward.

‘He could have at least brought me a coffee before he found better things to do,’ he muttered. ‘He’s probably brewing a fresh pot for the vagabond as we speak.’ Pitch pushed the pillow away and sat up, scowling at the unlit hearth. Silas fretted too much over Charlie, who had not left the lieutenant’s sickbed in days, insisting on sleeping in an overstuffed armchair at his side. ‘Didn’t even stir the bloody fire. Selfish bastard.’

If Silas wasn’t with the lad, fussing and bothering, he was probably out walking his ugly, drooling hound. Throwing the skriker a ball when he should have been handling Pitch’s.

Now he was slipping into a downright foul mood, and even though he knew his thoughts and grumbles not entirely reasonable, he let them overtake him. He threw back the covers. Surly or not, his morning glory had not eased: a fine tent pole of pink and rose hues, dashed with the faint trace of blue-green where veins ran close beneath the skin.

‘Fine. I shall deal with this myself.’

Pitch lay back down and took hold of himself with an irritated hiss, cursing the ankou for a serious neglect of duty. He gave himself tight, angry jerks that bordered on unpleasant but, admittedly, only roused him further. He cleared his mind, focusing upon one need alone. Pitch arched the small of his back, grunting up at the canopy which shuddered a little as he worked himself, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. The seeing-to would be brief.

Pitch bent his knees so as to allow for more violent jerks of his hips, finding an urgent motion that had his balls ready to burst.

‘Ah, oh gods…fuck…’ The rest of his words melted into incoherent groans as Pitch soared high, where a base fire burned his belly, spreading desirous flames towards his cock.

He cried out, bracing for the unstoppable release.

Two sharp raps on wood and the door swung open.

Suddenly, abhorrently, he was no longer alone.

‘Tobias, you must…oh sweet Jesus!’ Charlie shouted. ‘Oh god, I’m sorry…oh god.’