Page 80 of The Troll's Tiny Bride

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I still. Just the head inside.

“Too much?” I ask, breath tight.

She pants. Then grins like a demon. “More.”

I slide in.

Inches stretch her, open her. She groans, her legs trembling around my waist. Her pussy grips me like a vice, squeezing tight around every inch. I bury myself to the hilt.

I hold still, forehead pressed to hers, waiting.

“You okay?” I rasp.

“Fuck yes,” she gasps. “Move.”

I do.

Slow at first. Then harder. Deeper.

Each thrust draws a sound from her—half cry, half curse. Her nails bite my back. I kiss her throat, her jaw, her lips. She meets every thrust, hips rolling, body wild.

Our rhythm is savage. Desperate.

“Harder!” she cries.

I give it to her.

My hips slam into her. My cock drives deep, hitting the spot that makes her scream. She’s drenched—slick pouring down her thighs. I grab one of her legs, hook it over my shoulder, and fuck her like I need her to survive.

“I feel everything,” she sobs. “You’re—gods—you’re everywhere.”

I growl her name, thrust faster.

Her pussy clamps down hard. I feel her shatter under me.

She screams—full body trembling, hands fisting the furs. I don’t stop. I keep fucking her through it until her eyes roll back and her mouth falls open in a silent gasp.

Then I let go.

I bury myself deep and come hard—roaring into her throat as my seed spills inside her, hot and thick. We shudder together, locked in sweat and breath and the thunder of heartbeats.

We collapse in a heap. She’s on my chest, trembling. Her fingers trace my horns. My arms wrap tight around her, holding her like I’ll never let her go.

She whispers into the hollow of my throat.

“I think I love you.”

I don’t speak.

But my arms never let her go.

19

RIVER

The world above us shatters first.

A deafening boom rocks the ground as the human army slams into Kyrdonis’s outer walls. Catapults tear through stone, sending sprays of brick and dust into the sky. Harsh lights bloom against the midnight sky—flares, fire arrows, artillery booming like thunder. From the city streets, I can almost taste the panic: acrid smoke, spilled oil, sweat soaked into the cobbles.