Page 38 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

“Good boy. Now, since we have some time, I’m going to have a little fun. Keep the lines of communication open. If anything is too much, just tell me.” I tapped the crop lightly against his thigh.

I eased my thumb back into the trolgar point, firm and unhurried, and held it there while I counted to ten in my head. His breathing quickened. His shoulders hunched forward. At eight, his lips parted and a low groan built in his chest. At ten, I released.

His whole body sagged, and the breath he let out shuddered.

I waited, let the sensation ebb, watched the tension drain from his neck, and his hands soften on the reins, and the moment his breathing steadied, I pressed in again, harder this time, grinding my thumb into the gland.

His hips jerked forward on the bench. “Sky—”

“Shh. I’ve got you. Baby, just let me make you feel good.” I held the pressure, then eased off, then pressed again in a slow pulse. His head dropped back, his mouth opened, and a quiet, desperate whimper slipped out. It went straight to my cock like a bolt of lightning. I was hard in my trousers, had been hard since I picked up the crop, and the ache of it was becoming its own kind of torment. But I wasn’t done. Not even close.

I backed off and let him have a full minute of nothing. I ate an apple, let Poppy sniff at the core, watched the countryside roll past like I didn’t have a care in the world, like the man beside me wasn’t breathing through his teeth with his cock straining against his trousers.

Then I set the crop down beside me, shifted to face him on the bench, and started exploring.

I skipped the horns and went for his body, my hands sliding under the hem of his shirt, palms flat against the furnace heat of his stomach. The muscles there were hard, ridged, and they jumped under my touch. I traced the groove of his hip with one fingertip, following the line of muscle down toward his waistband, and his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

“Do you want me to touch your cock?” I asked.

“Yes.” The word came out rough and immediate.

“Not yet.” I pulled my wrist free and moved my hands higher, tracing his ribs, pressing my palms against his chest. His heartbeat hammered against the heels of my hands, a fast, heavy rhythm that told me everything his face was trying not to. I found his nipple and pressed my thumb over it, and he hissed.

“Sky, please.”

“I love touching you.” I dragged my nails lightly down his stomach, every muscle clenching in a wave as I went. “Your big troll body is so sexy. I want to know every inch of you, every spot that makes you squirm.”

He moaned, shifting to try and get my hand lower. I pulled my hands back to his chest.

“Naughty boy. You don’t get that until you’ve earned it.”

“I don’t know why I like this. You are being very annoying,” he said.

“But you like it?”

He groaned. “It makes my mind go quiet. You make my mind go quiet.”

I knew why. And he was discovering it in real time. This giant, dignified man was realizing that he wanted to be denied, wanted to be teased, wanted to hand his pleasure over to me.

I leaned forward and nuzzled the bulge of his cock through his trousers. I pressed my lips against the hard ridge of his shaft, breathing warm air through the fabric, and a groan broke loose behind his ribs. I kissed my way up the length of him, open-mouthed, tasting the salt of his sweat through the cloth. His cock twitched against each touch, and my own throbbed in response, and I pressed the heel of my hand against myself for a second of relief before pulling back.

“Can I show you what this does?” I picked the crop back up.

He nodded. His eyes were glazed, soft and desperate, and the blue had spread from his ears down his neck and across his cheekbones. I started with light, exploratory taps on his thigh, learning what he liked. I tapped just above the knee. His breath caught. I moved higher, to the thick muscle of his inner thigh. His fingers tightened on the reins. I went higher still, close enough to his cock that he flinched toward it, seeking contact. And I pulled the crop away.

“Keep your focus on the road, Moerrven, or we’ll have to stop playing.”

He blinked and sat up straight, giving the reins a tug. His cock was straining against the seam of his trousers, a wet spot forming at the tip where pre-cum had soaked through.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart? The slight sting of pain, the rush of fear?” I dropped the crop onto the bench and knelt up, pressing both thumbs into the trolgar points, and whatever he was going to say dissolved into an affirmative groan. His hips rolled forward involuntarily, seeking friction, and I pulled my hands away.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“Please. Sky, please.”

“Please what? Tell me exactly what you want.”

“Touch my cock. Please touch my cock.”