Page 52 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

He worked his hands down my spine, pressing into each vertebra, finding the places where I held my stress and dismantling them with a methodical precision that reminded me of the way he wielded the crop, deliberate and attentive, reading my body’s responses and adjusting accordingly.

He poured water over my shoulders. He found the soap, something herbal and fragrant, provided by the inn, and he lathered it up. His hands became slick against my skin, sliding over the muscles of my back, my sides, the curve of my ribs. He was not washing me the way one washes oneself. He was washing me the way one tends to something precious, taking great care with every inch of my skin.

I closed my eyes. He slid his hands lower, to the small of my back, the swell of my hips, his soapy fingers tracing the groove of muscle along my spine with a slowness that was not practical and was wholly intentional. My cock stirred in the water as he coaxed me to lift up and slid his hand down between my buttocks, circling my sensitive hole.

“You want to put your cock there?” I asked, shivering.

He groaned. “I do. Nothing sexier than thick thighs and a thick ass on a man. And I love having you inside me. I want you to experience that pleasure.”

“Oh,” I whispered, my cheeks hot enough that I knew I was blushing.

“Now turn around,” he said. “Face me.”

I turned. He was kneeling in the bath, the water full enough now to lap at his collarbones, and his expression was focused and warm and present. He soaped his hands again and placed them on my chest.

He washed me as though cataloging me. The flat planes of my pectorals, the line of hair that ran down my stomach, the ridges of my abdominal muscles. He ran his fingers over my nipples, and I shuddered. He traced the V of muscle at my hips, and I gripped the edge of the bath. His touch was not teasing, not building to a punchline, but worshipful in a way that made my throat tighten.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Every part of you.”

“Trolls are not—”

“You are.” His hand found my cock under the water, his fingers gentle around me while his other hand soaped my thighs. “This body. These muscles. This cock that makes me lose my mind. This skin that turns the most gorgeous shade of blue when you blush.” His thumb brushed the head of my cock and my hips jerked forward. “You are beautiful, Moerrven Mossren, and I am going to spend the next hour showing you what that means.”

An hour seemed ambitious. I was already trembling, already hard again.

“I thought this was aftercare,” I whispered. “It feels more like foreplay.”

He laughed. “Maybe a bit of both.”

He washed my legs, my feet, my hands. He washed my horns gently, avoiding the trolgar points with a deliberateness that was its own kind of tease. He rinsed my hair with clean water that poured from the faucet at the turn of a knob, cupping it in his hands and working it through, careful of my eyes.

“Stand up,” he said.

I stood. The water ran down my body and the cool air hit my skin. I was naked and wet and hard in a bath in Highmark, with a human between my knees looking up at me, lips parted, eyes dark, and my heart stammered. He pulled the plug and let the dirty water out, rinsing us both with clean, warm spring water.

“Sit on the bench, here. Lean back against the edge,” he said. “And spread your legs.”

The vulnerability of the position was — considerable. My back was against the cool stone rim of the big tub, my ass on the narrow stone bench that sat at one end. I spread my thighs wide, let him lift my feet to balance one on each side of the rim, leaving me open and exposed. My cock jutted up against my stomach, smearing pre-cum across my skin.

He stepped back, groaning as he took in all of me. “The most perfect view I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. Then he reached for the almond oil on the counter, the little vials the innkeeper left out in case the high altitude gave anyone dry skin.

Then he knelt between my legs, his face at eye-level with my cock, balls, and fluttering hole.

His slick finger traced a circle around my hole. The sensation was — I had not anticipated the sensitivity there. Every nerve in that small ring of muscle fired at once, and I gripped the bath’s edge and exhaled through my teeth, digging my heels in and forcing myself to stay spread for him.

“Good?”

“Different, but intense.”

He pressed one finger inside me, unhurried, letting me adjust to the intrusion. The stretch was unfamiliar and strange, and my body’s first instinct was to clench against it, and Sky’s other hand came to rest on my inner thigh, warm and steady.

“Breathe,” he said. “Push toward me, not away. Your body knows what to do.”

I breathed. I pushed. The tension eased, and his finger slid deeper, and the sensation shifted from strange to a fullness, a presence, someone inside me in a place no one had ever been.

“Another?” he asked.

“Yes.”