Page 31 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

‘No,’ Pitch whimpered. ‘More.’

Silas hushed him. ‘We are not done.’

He touched a cautious, easing fingertip at Pitch’s entrance, while his lips returned to his first love. Kisses. A bounty was bestowed on Pitch’s cheeks, joined by tiny nips of teeth as Silas worked his fingers into the heat and press of resistant flesh.

The ankou made soothing sounds as Pitch begged and hissed and pleaded. One finger became two, sinking deep. But it was not enough.

Pitch squirmed. ‘You…I want you.’

Silas’s groan came from deep within his chest, and his fingers drew free. He swept an arm beneath Pitch and flipped him over, as though he were no heavier than the coat he lay upon.

‘And I need to see you.’ Silas’s growl went straight to Pitch’s balls. The ankou’s eyes were brightened, almost amber in their lustful vibrancy. He had discarded his trousers at some point, and stood bare, his desire thick and nodding against his belly.

‘Hurry.’ Pitch lifted his knees, opening himself wide, not giving a fuck at being seen so desperate and needful.

The table was too low for Silas, who had to bend to find his place. Pitch wriggled his arse closer to the edge of the table, frantic until he felt the tip of Silas’s shaft nudge deep between his cheeks.

‘There you are,’ Silas whispered.

‘Here I am.’ The blood pounded in Pitch’s ears, between his legs, and beneath his ribs. ‘At your mercy.’

‘Oh Christ,’ Silas groaned. He lifted one of Pitch’s legs, draping it over his shoulder. There was little doubt he’d chosen that leg on purpose, the one whose hip did not bother Pitch so. Silas wiped at himself quickly, discarded the cloth, and took himself in hand.

Pitch’s own prick throbbed, yearning for the ankou’s hold.

‘Damn it, there’s no oil,’ Silas said. ‘We–’

‘Forget that!’ Could the man not see him going out of his mind? Pitch lifted his free leg and clamped it against the ankou’s backside. ‘Just fuck me.’

He thrust against the pillar taunting him, his heel driving Silas forward. The impale went deeper than Pitch had intended, the sting of such a widening eye-watering. Silas was significant in all ways.

‘Oh. Shit.’

‘Pitch, are–’

‘I’m all right.’ He clasped Silas’s face and smothered his question with hungry lips. ‘All of you. Now. Don’t be gentle about it.’

The ankou’s gaze flared, dark and rife with hunger, but with an added mischief. ‘You need to ask nicely to get what you want, daemon. What do you say?’

Pitch stared at the brute leaning over him. The great mass of a man who was playing games with him. Wonderful, rousing games.

‘Sickle, will you fuck me?’ The play had him panting, desire making him shake.

The ankou raised a dark brow. Still not satisfied, curse him.

‘Please?’

‘Good boy.’

Silas drove into him, powerful, relentless motions that might have slid him off the table entirely if not for the ankou’s hold on his leg.

‘Fuck…fuck…’ Pitch grasped at the wood, at Silas’s arms, hanging on for dear life as the pummelling found its rhythm.

The ankou drove deep, glancing at the hidden place in Pitch’s passage that rendered him truly insensible; shouting and crying and whining like a maddened farm animal. His sounds stuttered by the brief, brutal thrusts. Silas worked his hips, grunting like a beast, the slap of flesh loud and primal.

It was ugly and base and utter paradise.

Pitch could not catch his breath, could do little else but hold on as the ankou owned him. He arched his back, losing himself in the reckless rhythm played.