Page 30 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

‘Fine.’

With a huff and much show of inconvenience, but with his curiosity piqued, Pitch did as he was asked. He slid himself off the table, making sure to brandish his considerable wares in Silas’s face, just in case the ankou decided to return his tongue to work.

‘Are you going to fuck me now?’

‘Not yet, but soon.’ Silas licked his lips, casting a wretchedly beautiful smile at the daemon who taunted him. ‘Unless you prefer that I bend for you this time?’

Sweet taints of the gods, what a thought that was: his cock buried in Silas’s arse, the ankou’s face twisted with the pleasure and the pain of it. He’d thought about it more than once. But Pitch had been spoiled. He knew what it was now to be filled by Silas, and he was greedy for it.

‘I…no, me. I bend.’ Clearly his tongue was broken. Pitch tried again. ‘I’ll take your offer, but not today.’

‘Very well.’ Silas kissed the crease of Pitch’s thigh. ‘Around you go, then.’

Who was this man? Pitch could not decide which Silas he preferred: the reserved, reticent man who would do exactly as he was told, or this specimen. The man who held his hips to guide him, asked him to bend over slowly, and told him to place his forearms on the table.

The man who knelt once more behind him and bade him spread his legs wider.

That devious man who took the warm cloth and brushed it over Pitch’s arse cheeks in smooth circular motions, wiping away the remnants of the pond, skimming his lips over the damp places.

Pitch balled his fists, his cock touching at the edge of the table as his hips refused to remain still. The cloth teased at his crack. Water trickled into the gully between tight mounds, making him hiss.

Silas pressed the cloth in deeper, near to where tight muscle twitched. He must have squeezed the cloth, for all at once Pitch was dripping, the water running down the inside of his thighs. Silas captured the running water at Pitch’s knee and dragged the cloth all the way back up again, making his legs tremble and delirious shaft jerk.

But Silas was not done. He sent the cloth deeper this time, a gentle pull at Pitch’s cheek easing the way open. The ankou touched the warm material against Pitch’s entrance, causing the daemon’s back to arch, a long drawn-out moan to escape him.

‘This is what I had planned for our bath.’ Silas was throaty, his hand busy.

He cleaned his daemon with fastidious care. Pitch was splayed out like a royal feast upon the table, being taken care of one gentle stroke at a time. He wriggled at the attention like the damned weeds in the pond, but there was no fear here. No panic. If Pitch were any calmer, any looser, he’d collapse.

He moaned and stretched his arm, intending to reach for his prick and ease some of the formidable pressure. But Silas was not having it.

He took hold of Pitch’s wrist. ‘I’ll take care of that,’ he whispered. ‘But you can help me…here.’

Silas drew Pitch’s hand back until it brushed the daemon’s arse cheek. ‘I want you to hold yourself open for me.’

Pitch nearly choked on his own astonishment. The ankou was superbly wicked. He followed orders, spreading himself open. He let his head drop, his hair surrounding his face like a veil. Waiting for what would come next. Right now there was nothing beyond these walls, gods, nothing beyond the fire’s swaying light. The ankou’s presence vanished all else.

Silas’s breath came first, warm against hidden places.

His tongue was next, running over the swirl of tight muscle between Pitch’s cheeks.

‘Oh fuck.’

The ankou, damn him, laughed where he was buried, puffing warm air against Pitch’s entrance before returning his tongue to work. He traced its tip against curled muscle, teased at the tiny weakness at the centre, pressing in deeper, seeking to enter.

Oh, fucking yes.

Pitch pressed his chest to the table, and his free hand joined the other in pulling himself as wide open as his flesh would allow.

‘Silas…damn it…Silas.’

He sputtered the name over and over, in that foolish way that came when all sense fled. Pitch pressed his hips back, pushing himself against the ankou’s tongue.

Silas reached around to take Pitch in hand and worked him, back and front. Relentless in both areas. Stroke after stroke, both exquisitely placed. The ankou’s thumb rubbed over the weeping slit on Pitch’s prick, while his tongue lapped at his entrance like a cat on cream. Pitch grew frantic as the ankou maintained an even pace. The small of his back was afire, but not with any bullying flame. Just good old fantastically delicious lust.

‘Oh gods…Silas…I can’t…’ Pitch bit at the coat, a mouthful of woollen material all that anchored him to the room. He was ready to fly off to a far distant star. One more tease of Silas’s tongue, one more brush of his fingers against the underside of a straining, dribbling cock and Pitch would be soaring.

But the ankou knew exactly what havoc he was creating. And precisely when to stop so as to create the most torment. His tongue and hand fell still.