Page 64 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

“You’ve been good to me,” he said. “Really good. Patient. Which is not a word I would’ve put on you, day one. You’ve been a very good assistant, Moerrven Mossren.”

And there was the turn in him, the moment the warmth tipped over into heat, as it always did between us, the two states never far apart. He slid his hand from my jaw down the side of my throat, and his leg pressed in, and his weight shifted as he came up over me.

“A perfect assistant.” He took the ledger out of my hands and set it on the floor with a care that was its own kind of filthy. “Diligent. Patient. Excellent penmanship. Hours of service. Never once complained.”

“I complain constantly.”

“Mm. Not as much as I would be.” He pushed the blanket down off my chest and followed it with his mouth, a slow drag of lips down my sternum that made the muscles under it jump. “I think a contribution like that earns a reward. Don’t you?”

I had spent years not being touched. I thought I had made my peace with stone and solitude and the particular cold that lives in a long-unused body. And when Sky crawled between my legs and put his mouth on my cock, it was not only pleasure. It was a man being reminded he had a need that could not be sated by a good book and a warm cup of tea.

“Sky.”

He lifted his head and grinned at me. “Mm. Hold still and let me thank you properly for all of your work.” He nosed at the base of my cock where it lay heavy against my stomach, already thick, already wanting, traitor that it was. He breathed me in then gave it a long, slow, luxurious lick. He looked up the length of my body, his pupils blown dark, his mouth an inch from where I needed it, and he made me wait there, in the warm and the lamplight, while my pulse slammed.

“Look at you,” he said. “How did you spend so long pretending you didn’t know what you wanted?”

“I knew.” It came out of me unguarded. “I just didn’t expect to get it.”

His smile faltered, there and gone, and then he took me into his mouth, and I lost the thread of every thought I had been so carefully managing.

He was good at this, as if he had studied the art of sucking cock. And I appreciated the master who’d taught him such skill. He took me deep on the first stroke, deeper than the difference in our sizes should have allowed. He swallowed against the head of my cock, then forced me into his throat, and it took every single ounce of control in my body not to rut up into him as he swallowed around my shaft.

I reached down and stroked his jaw as he braced himself on my thighs and sucked me like he wanted to pull me deep inside him and make me part of him, alternating between licking and sucking the shaft, and deep, devastating strokes that looked impossible and felt like we would be joined like that forever.

What he was doing looked like submission, but I knew better. Every time he let me into his throat, he owned another part of me. Every time he lifted, taking a deep breath, I whimpered like an addict unable to get his drug of choice. Then he impaled his mouth on my cock, tight heat enveloping me, and all was right in the world again.

His pace was brutally fast, and a tightening low in my groin told me my orgasm was growing close. He had taught me to read the signs closely, because my orgasms were his, and they required his permission in a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever get enough of.

“Sky, I’m not going to last, if you—”

He pulled off long enough to say, “That’s the idea, big guy,” his lips wet and obscene, his eyes shining. “Let go.”

I tried to hold it. I wanted to make it last because lasting was the only way I knew to keep anything. But when he lifted his eyes to me, all I saw was permission. Let go. I’ve got you. It’s allowed.

So I came down his throat with my hand fisted in his hair and his name breaking apart in my mouth. He licked and sucked, devouring every last drop like he was starved for it, swallowing it down. Swallowing me down, so I would know all day that he had a part of me inside him.

He crawled up the bed and knelt over my face, offering me my second orgasm. His hands on my horns while he fucked my mouth like it was his hole to use sent my body spiraling over the edge as he flooded me with his cum. I sucked him long and slow, gentling the pressure but holding him there well after his orgasm had passed.

“You okay?” he asked, stroking my trolgar as I held onto his soft cock like a lifeline. I nodded, because I didn’t want to let go. “Okay, sweetheart. You can hold me a little while longer.”

Eventually, I felt okay to let go, and he climbed off of me and settled beside me. I waited for his breathing to slow, for his muscles to go slack, and I slipped out of the bed.

I found paper. I sat with the quill freshly dipped and unmoving for a long while, while the cottage ticked and Poppy rearranged herself in the warm place I had vacated.

The first draft asked the question plainly, and I fed it to the stove. The second buried the question so deep that Thessaly would have needed a mining permit to find it. The stove took that one as well. The third struck the proper balance, by which I mean it lay with dignity.

Dear Thessaly,

I am researching a matter for the next novel. A troll character and a human character, if you can imagine such a pairing. The story requires a horn-binding, and the human has no horns, and I cannot write my way around the problem. You understand charm-craft better than anyone living. Could elven magic carry a trolgar into one born without it? Say a piece of horn, freely given, worked to lie against the skin. I know it’s no replacement for the gland, but if my human character could feel even a modicum of the trolgar bond, it would be delicious. For my readers, of course.

Yours,

Moerrven

I read it back twice. It was the least convincing lie I had ever produced. I added a note about sending any response to Frostholm, and sealed it before I could feed it to the stove with its brothers.

Chapter 21