Troll-y Yours BBW Erotic Curvy Fantasy Romance (The Centaurs)

by Fredricks, Sheri

  Troll-y Yours

  Book Two

  The Centaur Series

  By

  Sheri Fredricks

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously and are definitely fictionalized. Any trademarks or pictures herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks or pictures used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

  Publishers Note:

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form (electronic or print) without permission from the author, except in the embodiment of reviews.

  Troll-y Yours

  Sheri Fredricks

  Copyright 2013 by Temple Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  Editor: Leanore Elliott

  Cover Art provided

  By

  Carey Abbott

  ©May, 2013; Sheri Fredricks

  Temple Publishing LLC © 2013

  The Centaur Series

  Paranormal Romance Guild Reviewers' Choice Award for 2012.

  Man by day, Centaur by night, Rhycious is a remedy maker who needs his own healing.

  He's the royal physician, famous for his cures. War and posttraumatic stress disorder has broken his spirit, preventing him from finding true happiness. Then a direct order from the queen to investigate an uprising forces him out of his secluded cabin at the edge of the forest.

  Patience is an optimistic, good-natured Wood Nymph who works as a mediator to ensure harmony within the Nymph sector.

  When Rhycious loses his grip on reality, he believes his inability to control his disorder will drive Patience away. Nevertheless, desire flares, and Patience draws him close. Kidnapping and betrayal turn their mythic joint venture into a deadly bout.

  Will their love endure when survival hinges on trusting each other?

  Remedy Maker

  Dedication

  To my creative, talented, and awesome CPs who challenged me to bang it out better: Mel from Hell and D’Ann Linscott-Dunham.

  And to the Wicked Women—you keep me sane.

  Thank you.

  One

  Kempor Aleksander pounded his hips against the hottest female Centaur in all Boronda—and he was bored.

  Up and down…Up and down.

  Beneath him, Adelpha in her human form cried out, “Faster—Faster, Alek. I’m almost there.”

  In and out…In and out.

  “Yes, sweetheart.” I was hoping you’d been there, thirty minutes ago! His phallus rigidus would soon become phallus relaxus, if the blasted woman didn’t hurry it up. He slipped his hand between their slick bodies to encourage her to a speedy ending. After all, as a Centaur himself, he was very experienced in the art of pleasuring females.

  Adelpha’s moans grew louder and she wriggled about, so he rolled her taut nipple between his fingers.

  Same routine, different female. He clenched his jaw to stifle a yawn. Good thing Adelpha’s tight body felt wonderful wrapped around him.

  The bottom of his left foot developed an itch, and as he moved up and down, in and out, he wondered how he’d scratch without breaking his pounding rhythm. He tweaked her other nipple, drawing more cries. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Aleksander thought about the half-eaten plate of enchiladas in his icebox, leftovers from last night’s dinner. Oh yeah . . . a few forkfuls, washed down with an icy oat-soda, would be nice right about now. But Pan’s hooves, he had to finish this monotonous mattress work first.

  For a moment, he mulled if anything over one hundred years was old for a Centaur, and if that were the reason for his bedtime boredom. Doubtful. As long as my heart keeps beating, I’ll never be too old for this.

  Maybe bored, but never too old.

  So, why did life lose its luster for him? Moreover, when?

  As he pounded into Adelpha, Aleksander reminded himself he’d been raised to be a warrior. He prided himself at having worked into his position of Head Palace Guard.

  If not a soldier for Queen Savella, then what? Gigolo?

  Last year, his best friend Rhycious, the Royal Remedy Maker, married Patience, a Wood Nymph. While Alek had been restless for a time, prior to the unorthodox wedding, he’d never before given thought to staying tied to one female. Rhy seemed crazy in love, spouting all sorts of besotted crap these days.

  Perhaps it was possible. Maybe it’d fill the gaping hole in his heart.

  Tied to one female? Ha! Ridiculous. I’d rather have Minotaur fingers curled around my throat, pinching off the air.

  “Oh! Don’t stop.”

  Startled, he snapped back to the present and plastered a grin to his unsmiling lips.

  Adelpha’s heavy-lidded eyes peered back, slightly irritated, wholly aroused. Her long legs wrapped his hips and squeezed tight, refusing to allow him escape.

  As if he could. While his mind could care less, Meat Wrench—the name he called his buried cock—twitched happily.

  Adelphia pouted her kiss-swollen lips.

  Surreptitiously, he glanced at his watch. One hour before the boys met for a beer. Lifting her leg over his shoulder, he hammered her in earnest.

  Short pounding strokes tipped her over the edge and scattered her wits to the ecstasy beyond. Adelpha screamed her delight.

  A few more pumps and he abruptly pulled out, releasing himself outside of her body with a loud grunt of weariness.

  Another satisfied female.

  Too bad satisfaction skipped his stop.

  “Mmm, Aleksander.” Her sharp-tipped fingernails scratched lightly across his back. “When will you admit I’m the only one for you?”

  When I decide to geld myself. He timed his escape from between her scissoring thighs and made to roll off the low floorbed.

  Quicker than a tail snap, Adelpha snatched his gold neck chain and pulled him back to her.

  Pain from the strangling was scant, compared to the irritation building inside. “Adelpha, let me up.”

  “No,” she whined. “I want to cuddle, and—I’m horny again.”

  The only thing horny-like about Adelpha were her crescent-shaped ruby earbobs and the BDSM hobbles she intended on attaching to him—marriage.

  Half-reclined on the bed, head held immobile by the small fist twisting his chain, Aleksander weighed his options like any seasoned warrior.

  He gathered his arsenal of weapons: an uncommonly sharp intelligence. He reviewed his knowledge of her weaknesses: Adelpha’s fear of losing her beauty.

  Aleksander turned to face her, stopping when the gold links’ pulling on his throat brought him to a halt. Lastly, he studied his opponent: blonde hair spread in frothy display, her narrowed eyes calculating as a cat’s.

  One side of his mouth turned up in feigned surrender. “My transition is in less than thirty minutes. I doubt getting squashed by my true form is what you had in mind. Imagine your delicious body then, sweet-thing.”

  Not to mention coupling between equine Centaur and those in human form was against the orders of society.

  She relaxed her hold, and his chain slid from her fingers.

  He laid it on thick, but she wouldn’t know the difference. “I report to duty in a short while—” nine hours from now “—and if I’m late . . . ? You wouldn’t want me demoted, would you?”

  Adelpha fell back with a harrumph. Millions of air beads crackled inside the mattress as she stretched her arms overhead. “Course not. I thought we had
time for another quickie, is all.” Her sleek body rolled away and she rose to her feet.

  He eyed her, seeing through the deceptively shrewd demeanor.

  For Adelpha, it was all about marrying into a notable station, which was why he’d taken no chances on impregnating the cunning filly. His military position within the Centaur kingdom was as high up as they came—below Queen Savella, of course.

  Aleksander flicked his gaze over her nude body, then climbed out of bed. The sooner he kicked her heart-shaped ass out his stallroom door, the better.

  “Get dressed, Adelpha. I’ll walk you to the Atrium.”

  *~*~*

  Ella made a grab for the loose sheets of colorful paper she’d nearly dropped on the busy walkway of the Centaur inner mall. Last spring, she’d made up her mind to start her own business in the kingdom’s recently opened free market. She’d wasted no time in applying for a permit at the palace and was granted permission a month ago.

  Two weeks prior, contriving the opening night for Boronda Forest’s first ever speed-dating service sounded like an exciting adventure—a way to get out of the house and away from her overbearing Troll mother.

  Opening night nerves from the overwhelming response heated her face, which she knew would highlight every freckle on her ivory skin. For herself, she could care less about meeting a male. It was all about making enough money to get out from under her parents’ rock and moving far, far away.

  She could do without relationships and all the headaches that came with them.

  Ella’s hair caught in the dangling strap of her book bag, and she yanked the reddish strands free. Long curls fluttered from the chrome buckle. Before she could step aside, a Minotaur walking backwards and talking to friends ran into her.

  And the fliers made their getaway.

  “Crap.” Ella knelt carefully on her long skirt and gathered the sheets nearest her. “Do you suppose you can help me?”

  Transfixed by the strewn multi-hued papers, the female Minotaur stared at the rock floor.

  Stupid cow.

  The girl shrugged, then leaned down and lifted a yellow sheet closer to her squinty vision.

  “Are you going to this?” She handed the sheet to Ella.

  “I’m the one putting it on.”

  “So, are you going?”

  Raising her chin, Ella peered up. “Yes. I’m going.”

  Was this heifer for real? No sense explaining to moo-child that the owner of the speed-dating service ought to be there for her clients.

  Stupid cow.

  “I’m going, too. I signed up last week. Did you sign up?”

  Ella bit the inside of her cheek, suppressing a desire to take the fliers in her hand and wallop the girl between her bovine eyes. Professional attitude won out. “What name did you register under?”

  “Carryyn. And that’s spelled with an r-r-y-y.” Thick fingers, matching an equally thick brain, brandished another sheet plucked from the cold floor. She waved it inches from Ella’s face.

  “You’re in the second session.” Leaning away from potential paper cuts to her nose, Ella remembered the female’s uniquely spelled name . . . then gathered ten fallen fliers for every one of the Minotaur’s. Maybe her horns keep her off balance. “Thanks, Carryyn.” She stuffed the papers inside the book bag and rose to her feet. “See you later.”

  “You will? Where?” Her great bovine head tilted. Metal rings around her horns spun while her skinny tail drew lazy circles as if it were swimming the air like a one-finned fish.

  Stupid cow.

  Across the centuries old palace tunnel, two speed-dating announcements hung on either side of the Neigh Café door. Patrons, mainly female, eyed the posters and giggled. Ella dashed to tear the fliers down.

  Three rotations were already scheduled, and the waiting list exceeded a hundred names. The café’s maximum capacity held twenty-five—legally. Apprehension skittered along her spine. Turnout was better than expected and she hoped she could pull it off.

  Bawdy male laughter erupted from a group of male Centaurs who whistled and flirted with females passing by.

  Ella shook her head. Did the studs really think women were attracted to asinine behavior? She turned back to the task of removing her advertisements.

  The café door opened wide. Ella quickly stepped from the swinging path of the oncoming wood . . . and slammed into a hard object with an oomph.

  Roped with heavy muscle, a thick arm wrapped around her ribs and kept her from toppling over. Just when the intoxicating scent of rich Patchouli did more than register in her brain, a herd of boisterous males swept past, pursuing their female quests. Ella and the owner of the sinewy limb stumbled forward after a shove from behind.

  An immediate sense of sexual desire emanated from the connection at her waist. It flashed heated strobes of red and orange in her aura-reading mind.

  Unexpectedly, while Ella got face-to-face with the accumulated dust on the mall’s rock wall, a very large hand became personally acquainted with her left breast.

  Two

  Warmth, soft and heavy, filled the palm of Aleksander’s hand. The female’s nipple pebbled beneath the single stroke of his self-directed thumb. Against his nose, her rampage of fire-red hair smelled of sweet night-blooming jasmine.

  A sharp elbow jabbed his ribs.

  “Ow! Get off me, you oversized hairy ass.” Madder than a Saturday night Satyr with chipped hooves, the hissing ball of nails spun around and glared up at him. “What in Tartarus do you think you’re doing?”

  A battlefield of cinnamon freckles lay positioned across the Troll’s cheeks and nose, prepared to join the allied forces of her narrowed eyes. Brows a shade darker than the wild hue of her hair, lowered over glittering aquamarine.

  By the gods, the female stole his speech away. Not even his mare mother had that capability.

  “What are you staring at?” Effective as a bump from a kitten, her small hands shoved at his chest. The tips of her pointed ears pinkened.

  Aleksander’s pecker twitched hard. For all her Troll anger, she was exceedingly charming. He propped his hands on the rock wall behind her, trapping the nixie between his arms.

  “Hello, sweet-thing. What’s your name?”

  “Ballagon.” Slow and sexy, the corners of her mouth tipped up. Her pink tongue darted out and wet her bottom lip.

  “Huh?” Was that even a word?

  “Ballagon. As in, your ballocks will be gone if you don’t move away from me this instant.”

  Experienced in tactics of war—and women, Aleksander knew when to retreat. Transitioned into his true Centaur form, his hooves backed away from the Troll. He took in her curves, hidden beneath an ugly jumper-style dress.

  Anger sparked in the depths of her glaring eyes.

  “Is this the line to get in?” To his right, a genetically-challenged Minotaur bounced her gaze between the Troll and him.

  He’d never been into the bovines, though he’d heard some outlandish stories circulated through the barracks which certainly kinked his tail.

  “No, Carryyn.” More blue fire flashed in the Troll’s narrowed eyes. “I’m going in now to set up.”

  “Oh, hey. You know my name. It’s spelled with an r-r-y-y, you know.”

  A breathy sigh whispered from the red-haired gnomette before she shouldered him out of the way. Then she paused, her hand on the café’s door handle. “Carryyn with a C—second session. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  With a final dirty look thrown his way, the beguiling Troll opened the door and disappeared inside.

  He hadn’t yet shown her the full force of his indefensible charms. In ten minutes, she’d be boneless in his arms.

  Confident of his abilities, Alek clip-clopped toward the eatery entrance.

  The female Minotaur blocked his path. “Are you in the first session? Because it hasn’t started yet.”

  Aleksander raised a brow at Carryyn. “Session for what?”

  “Troll-y Yours, of course.
If you didn’t sign up . . . .” She made a tisking noise and handed him a yellow sheet of paper. “Too bad, so sad. It would’ve been nice to share your table.”

  A mixture of relief and confusion passed through him as he watched Carryyn stroll down the atrium mall, her polished horns swaying side to side.

  Looking at the flier in his hands, the headline in bold read:

  Are you a busy single professional?

  Troll-y Yours guarantees you will meet a mythic of worth, or your next date is FREE.

  TROLL-Y YOURS

  The most enjoyable and fastest way to meet your special mate.

  “‘Scuse me.”

  Aleksander glanced up, then stepped his hind hooves aside to allow a Satyr to brush past.

  Perhaps late for work, the waitress hurriedly wrapped her waist with the strings of a white apron and elbowed the door open. Her right hoof kicked it wider, and she scrambled inside—all while tying a bow at her back.

  Alek used the opportunity to hold the door and peer within. Small round tables were set in rows, two chairs per table. Centered on each polished top, a red number marking a white card stood next to empty bud vases.

  On the left side of the café, a few customers warmed barstools at the counter. Embedded specs of natural thermo-luminescent minerals lit the carved ceiling and reflected off the smooth granite top.

  Situated at the back of the room, clipboard in her hand, Ms. Troll spoke to Sacha, the Centaur owner in two-legged form. He nodded, shook her hand, and disappeared behind swinging double-doors.

  Thank the mythic gods Centaurs were born with transition shifts that altered, according to their time of birth. The pull of the moon, the line-up of the stars . . . it all had to do with their shape shift schedule.

  The sexy Troll’s pale skin glowed with golden undertones, while her nose was straight, short, and delightful. When she glanced to see him in the doorway, the corners of her mouth turned down.