Page 40 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

“I need to come. Please let me come. Please. I promise to be good, from now on.”

His dignity was gone. The formal composure, the literary precision, the hundred and twenty-seven years of measured self-possession — all of it stripped down to this: a man begging on a wagon bench in broad daylight, his cock in my hand, his body shaking, asking for permission.

I had never been so turned on in my life. My cock was aching, leaking, pressed hard against the seam of my trousers. I was drunk on power, on watching a troll, a mountain of solid muscle, reduced to shaking and pleading because I told him to wait. I wanted him to beg more. I wanted to hear him say my name in that needy, desperate voice for the rest of my life.

“One more thing.” I cupped his face and turned it toward me. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted, his breath hot against my mouth. “You don’t get to come until you’ve taken care of me, do you, sweet boy?”

His gaze dropped to my cock, straining against my trousers, and his expression shifted, the desperation mixing with hunger.

“Yes,” he said. “Please. I want to taste you. Want you in my mouth, want to please you more than anything.”

I unlaced my trousers and freed my cock, and the relief of it made me gasp. I knelt up on the bench and Moerrven looped the reins around a little hook by the footrest, then turned toward me, and when I guided myself to his lips, he opened his mouth with a groan of pure gratitude. His mouth was hotter than any human mouth. The wet slide of his tongue along the underside of my cock made my vision white out for a second.

“Fuck.” I gripped his horn with one hand, pressing into the trolgar point, and he moaned around me, and the vibration shot up my spine. “That’s it. Good boy. You’re so good. Can you feel how good this makes me feel?”

He sucked me like he was starving for it, like this was the thing he’d been needing all along, not just to be touched but to serve, to take, to be filled. He gripped my hips, pulling me deeper. I rocked into his mouth, shallow at first and then harder, and the wet, messy, desperate sound of it mixed with the creak of the wagon, the birdsong, the absurd pastoral beauty of the countryside rolling past.

He moaned around me, hips rutting into the air as he sucked me. The look on his face when I glanced down was all relief, the expression of a man who had stopped fighting and found it was what he wanted. His sounds vibrated through my whole body, and it was too much: his surrender, his hunger, the way he looked up at me like I’d given him something he hadn’t known he was missing.

I came with my fist in his hair and his name in my mouth. He swallowed, his throat working around me, greedy and thorough, and I shuddered through the aftershocks while his mouth gentled around me, easing me through it.

I pulled back, breathing hard, and looked down at him. His lips were swollen, his eyes glassy, and his cock was still hard, still denied, flushed dark and leaking against his stomach.

“Your turn,” I said, and slid down his body before he could form a sentence, dragging his trousers down to his knees on the way.

His cock was hot and slick with pre-cum, and I took him into my mouth in one smooth motion, as deep as I could. Moerrven moaned, deep and broken, louder than anything I’d heard from him yet. His hand found the back of my head, not pushing, only resting there, trembling. I sucked him hard, no more teasing, no more denial. He’d earned this. I worked my tongue against the underside, hollowed my cheeks, and gave him everything: fast, wet, merciless.

“Sky. Sky, I’m going to—”

I sucked harder. Finally, Moerrven came with a broken shout, spilling into my mouth. I swallowed. He tasted like salt and warmth, like the sharp clean musk I was already addicted to. I kept sucking as his hips jerked and his thighs shook on either side of me, taking everything he gave me until he was whimpering and spent.

I pulled off and sat up. He was slumped on the bench, chest heaving, eyes wet, his expression open in a way I had never seen from him: no formality, no armor, no composure, just Moerrven.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and grinned at him. He reached out, cupped my face, and ran his thumb across my cheekbone with a tenderness that made my breath hitch.

My chest went tight in a way I was not going to think about on a wagon bench in the middle of nowhere.

Clover had stopped walking. She was standing in the middle of the road, mouthing at a clump of grass.

“Sky,” he said after a while. His voice was destroyed. “My trousers are around my knees and the village is half a mile away.”

“Yep.”

“I cannot arrive in a village in this state.”

I yanked my own clothing back into place, then pulled his trousers back up and tucked him in, gently, lacing them up with a care that made his breath catch. Then I reached behind the bench, grabbed his travel cloak, and draped it over his lap. “There. Dignified.”

He stared at me, narrowing his eyes for long enough that I thought he might be angry, but then he laughed, full and rumbling, startled up from deep in his chest. I pressed my face against his shoulder and grinned so hard my cheeks ached.

“What happens if we have to go another night without a private room?” I asked, and it came out less joking than I meant it to.

“I am sure it will not come to that.”

“You said that after the bunkroom. And then last night’s inn put us in a room with a bunch of cots lined up like an old-fashioned hospital ward.”

His arm came around me. Poppy yawned in her habitat. Clover refused to move until Moerrven picked up the reins and apologized to her, which he did with the grave formality of a man addressing a dignitary.

I leaned into him. The road was still boring, the countryside was still pretty, and I didn’t mind any of it, because I had him.