Page 28 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

PITCH KNELTat the hearth and raised his hand to the pile of kindling. Crouching was made difficult by the rigid length in his trousers, but he’d endure worse to see this fire lit.

He stared hard at the bright and sure flame that came from his finger. Itwasmore than enough to have this hearth crackling, Silas was right. They would be warm, and warm themselves further in more pleasant ways. And eventually he’d tell Silas what else the angel had said…about preparing to leave this day. But not yet. It was early, Sybilla had not yet returned. And Pitch needed this time with the ankou in this dusty, cluttered place at the bottom of the garden.

His cock twitched at the thought of what was to come. He glanced over his shoulder. Silas cradled the bucket of water in his arms, sloshing it over the sides as he sought to move it.

‘What are you doing?’

‘If we warm this water,’ Silas said, ‘then we can use it to bathe…I don’t know about you, but I have silt in some very odd places.’

‘A good idea, but Silas, I have fire in my fingers, why are you lugging it about? I’ll warm it where you set it. You’re going to slosh half the bloody water out at that rate.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ Silas blushed, and Pitch’s balls inched a bit higher, squeezed a bit tighter. ‘I’m rather distracted.’

He laughed in that uncertain way he had. Gods damn it, this was going to be the quickest fuck known to humankind, for just the sound of Silas’s voice had Pitch leaking, hungry for the distraction and the intimacy. If the ankou tried to wipe him down with a warm wet cloth, the game would be over.

The flame snapped from him, doubling its size, swelling as impressively as Silas’s cock was doing in his trousers. Pitch dragged his eyes from that sight to regard the fire coming from him.

Fucking gods, despite its growth it was still pathetic. He jabbed his finger into the kindling. The time for worrying over Seraphiel’s monumental meddling would be later. Pitch had other needs right now.

The wood caught and flared. He set his finger to the other end of the pile and soon had a pleasant hissing fire glowing in the hearth.

He rose to his feet, feeling happier than he’d done since he’d left the house.

‘Well, I shall be useful in a forge at least.’ His grin snagged as he set eyes on Silas.

The ankou had peeled off his sodden shirt. The dark hair on his chest glistened as the fire’s light caught at the dampness. His light brown eyes were bright with his desire.

‘Come here, please.’ Silas was throaty and altogether too wonderful to deny.

Pitch did as he was asked, moving to the table where Silas waited. The ankou did not take his eyes from Pitch’s face, but he tilted his head towards the bucket he’d placed on the chair. A forest-green coat, the brightest colour in the room, hung over the back. ‘Would you mind warming the water?’

Loath as he was to do so, Pitch tore his gaze from Silas. He placed his hand in the bucket and sent the flame beneath his skin, grimacing with how slow the glow was to arrive.

Silas moved in closer, the dank scent of the pond moving with him. ‘May I?’ He set his fingers upon the surviving buttons on Pitch’s shirt.

‘You may.’

Silas began to undress him. He shifted back the collar, lifting some of the torn lace from where it was plastered to Pitch’s skin. The ankou’s fingers brushed collarbone, and Pitch sucked in a strangled breath. Silas had discovered his weak spot at Harvington Hall, the place to touch to turn a daemon to jelly. And never forgotten.

Without a word Silas leaned down to kiss him. A tantalisingly subtle brush of lips that had Pitch straining on tiptoes for more. The ankou eased back, a teasing, yet shy, grin rising. His hands slipped lower, taking in turn each button that had survived the mania of the pond, pausing to rub his fingertip over Pitch’s cool flesh, before moving in for another feather-light kiss.

Over and over he teased, drawing whimpered protests from the daemon he tortured.

By the last button, Pitch breathed like a post boy on his last run of the day, groaning against the torment of kisses denied. His prick was crying tears of frustration, making a warm damp patch in his already-soaked trousers.

‘I think that is warm enough,’ Silas whispered, running his hands up Pitch’s chest, slipping fingers beneath damp fabric clinging to his shoulders.

‘What?’

Silas pushed the shirt clear and grazed his lips over Pitch’s skin. ‘The water.’

The bucket of water was bubbling.

‘Oh shit.’ Pitch withdrew his hand, droplets speckling the tabletop. ‘Damn it.’

‘Never mind.’ Silas smiled and with fiendish ease removed Pitch’s shirt entirely, tugging it free where it snagged on one of his wrists. ‘It shall have time to cool before I need it.’

‘Is that so?’ Pitch could taste Silas’s iron-tinged kisses. The ankou was bold today. Sitting at the bottom of that pond had done him well.