Page 24 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

“I have not. They are quite rare. The only one I know of is a member of the royal court.”

“Are there other types of dragons?”

“Fire and water.”

“Well, the ice dragons sound positively dreamy in human form, with their silver hair and pale skin. Do you think their cocks are more dragon than human?”

I chose that moment to take a long drink of water from my canteen, letting him yammer on about the proportions of dragon cock as if he was speaking about something sensible to talk about on a public wagon road. Not that there was anyone around.

He began reading aloud, his tone warm, rich, and full of the same charm he had when he spoke. He read with instinct, giving the dragon his clipped reserve and Joku, the troll, his rough warmth, and somewhere in the first page I stopped thinking about protesting and started listening.

By the sixth chapter, Sky was lying on the bench with his head on my thigh.

It had all happened gradually. He’d sort of listed over, leaning a little at first, then twisted as he went down, landing on me as if I was a pillow and not a person. Poppy had migrated to his chest, and he was idly playing with her fur as he read. I diligently kept both hands on the reins, even if, in my imagination, my right hand was playing with his hair. He smelled of the soap he’d used at the inn, something with pine and citrus.

His mouth was approximately four inches from my cock, which had been in a state of persistent interest since the conversation at dawn and was now making its opinions known with renewed enthusiasm.

I adjusted the reins. I did not move my leg.

“‘Joku’s hands were enormous,’” Sky read, “‘and dusted with flour, and when he set the loaf on the counter his fingers brushed Hoareyn’s wrist, and the troll-warm, bread-warm heat of that touch spread up Hoareyn’s arm like something thawing.’” He paused. “Troll-warm. Is that a real thing? Are you guys actually warmer than other species?”

“I believe trolls run somewhat warmer than humans, yes. We’re adapted for mountains and caves.”

Sky pressed his cheek more firmly against my thigh and made a happy sound. “Mm, that’s why it was so nice to sleep next to you. I’m always cold.”

I kept my eyes on the road.

Stonedeep Lake glittered to our right. A hawk circled above the water. Everything in Qoksmere was beautiful and unhurried, and none of it was helping.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“No.”

He kept reading. He shifted. His head pressed more firmly against my thigh and I thought about the question he had asked me in the gray morning light, his body warm against mine, those dark eyes daring me to answer.

Do you want to fuck me?

Instead of giving him the dignified refusal of a widower only five years into his mourning, I had invoked pastries. Of all the possible responses, I had chosen baked goods. Because I knew he was easily distracted by food.

He’d made it sound so uncomplicated, when my answer was a complicated thing, with a dead wife’s name woven through it. I could not separate what I wanted from what I had lost, and the wanting itself felt like a betrayal of something I was not ready to release.

But deep down, I knew the answer was yes. I did want him. And I had no idea what to do with that answer because I was a middle-aged troll novelist who had buried the love of his life. I had promised myself I’d never feel that pain again, even if I lived for another three hundred years, which was likely for a troll.

“‘Joku set a hand on Hoareyn’s shoulder,’” Sky read, “‘and Hoareyn flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of warmth. Nobody touched him. He was too cold, too sharp, too other. And this troll, this enormous, gentle man with flour on his apron, touched him like it was nothing. Like he was just a person who needed feeding.’” Sky stopped reading. He was quiet for a moment.

I moved the reins into one hand, and the other slid into his hair. My fingers wove through the dark strands in an automatic sort of way, the way I pet Poppy when she wanders by. And by the time I registered what I was doing, I was already carding through the soft weight of it as if this were something I did every afternoon.

Sky’s voice faltered on the next line. A small catch, there and gone, before he recovered and kept reading. But his throat moved in a swallow, and the hand holding the book trembled for a moment.

The strands were fine and dark, and they slid through my fingers with a silkiness you didn’t find in troll hair. His scalp was warm under my fingertips. When my thumb traced the edge of his ear, he exhaled, a slow, controlled breath that told me he was working hard at being calm.

“You’re petting me,” he said, not looking up from the book.

“I’m removing a leaf from your hair.”

“What leaf?”

“It’s gone now.”