Page 31 of The Warrior and the Monk

Anders wasn't there when Wilder entered the longhouse. That was unusual, but not concerning. He usually stayed close by; Wilder could shout at the edge of the forest and Anders would soon appear. But sometimes hunting for deer or ducks took him farther into the trees. In the time since Wilder had accepted Anders's companionship and home, Anders had never failed to bring something back to cook over the hearth. But sometimes he did return quite late. It seemed to Wilder that this would be one of those evenings. For the time being, Wilder was alone in the house.

That gave him an idea.

Though they often kissed, it was Anders who initiated their more intense intimacies. A large, calloused hand squeezing Wilder's hip with just the right amount of pressure to ask a question. May I? And thus far, Wilder had happily allowed Anders to trail his fingers down further, to slip beneath the front of his breeches, and to press his lips to Wilder's neck, and to continue—to press against him, stroking and rubbing and rocking together until they reached their release, and then, in his sweet, shy way, Anders would grab a cloth and ask once more May I? and clean the mess they'd made from their bodies.

Wouldn't it be a pleasant surprise as well as a comfort for Anders to find, after a long, tiring day, Wilder there, waiting for him?

It would be, wouldn't it? Because Anders wanted him—enjoyed him. He shook his head and focused on preparing for Anders's return before he could talk himself out of his plan.

He chewed a sprig of mint and rosemary to freshen his breath as he heated a pot of water to wash himself. Leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, Wilder wiped the sweat and grime from his body with slow, sure strokes of the warm, wet rag. He'd grown stronger since coming to live with Anders—more muscled, more firm, but still slight compared to Anders's solidbulk. Once clean, Wilder crawled onto the bed of furs and tried to arrange himself into an attractive, enticing position.

It occurred to him then that he had no idea how to be seductive. How, exactly, did a person go about seducing someone else? Could one be seduced when the would-be seducer was their spouse? And didn't the act of seduction itself imply a kind of confidence, a skill, of the seducer? Wilder had—no idea what he was doing. He lay atop the furs, naked and frustrated, staring at the bundles of herbs and flowers drying from the rafters. The hearth's flames cast dancing, flickering shadows along the wall. The heat washed over him as delicately as a painter's brush.

He held his arm aloft, scrutinizing the lean muscle, the scattered freckles, the long fingers of his hand. Which of these aspects of him did Anders favor? What was it exactly about Wilder that he found attractive? Idly, he brought his hand down to his face and traced his cheekbones, his jaw, his lips, brushed his fingers down the nape of his neck and to his collarbones and then lower, his nails tickling his nipples. Wilder explored his nakedness with more curiosity than thoughts of pleasure. Here was a place that Anders had kissed, and here was another—his side, near his ribs, his stomach, near his navel. And here, now, he was sensitive, belly trembling as he recalled the sensation of Anders's touch—the softness of his lips, the scratch of his beard.

Wilder shifted, rubbing his bare legs on the furs. His hand trailed to his inner thigh. There was something exhilarating about it—being on exposed and on display, vulnerable yet lying in wait. That anyone could see him, but he was in his own home, and presenting himself to Anders. For Anders. It was him that Anders liked to see. That he'd wanted ever since he saw Wilder bathing in the river and that he frequently took into his arms now. Wilder was desired and desirable, and he needn't worry about whether or not the sight ofhim, naked and warm among the furs, was something that would please Anders because Anders was pleased by his very existence and overjoyed by his companionship.

More confident now, Wilder nestled further into the bedding and continued his exploration, now wondering at the difference in sensation between Anders's hand and his own. Anders's touch was so gentle and yet so certain. He knew how to give Wilder pleasure, where to massage with the rough pads of his fingers and tease soft moans from him, when to fist Wilder's entire length and stroke him until he was squirming and gasping in his grasp, where to place his mouth, sometimes light kisses that made Wilder laugh and sometimes long, wet laves of his tongue that left him shivering.

Arousal swept through his body and settled between his legs. At the thought of Anders above him, on top of him, Wilder grew flushed and his cock grew hard. The heat he felt was not just from the crackling fire. Wilder threw his head back, groaning, as he palmed himself. How could he ever use his own hand when he now knew Anders's? Wilder spread his legs wider, arched his back, closed his eyes, and imagined Anders pressed against him, just as aroused, just as eager.

Wilder stroked his cock, smearing precum along his length. He placed his other hand on his chest, feeling his rapidly beating heart before pinching a nipple between his fingers.

There was a strangled noise from the entrance way. Panting, Wilder pushed himself up onto his elbows and saw Anders standing there, staring down at him with an expression of wonder and lust. He audibly swallowed. Wilder watched the movement of his throat, how he licked his lips afterward.

"Anders," he murmured. "Husband."

It was the first time Wilder had spoken that word since learning its true meaning.

Anders sucked in a breath. In an instant, he was disrobing. Despite his arousal, Wilder was still able to note that he'd returned empty-handed. No fish, duck, or deer. Sometimes that was the way of things. He certainly didn't mind, because it left Anders's hands free to yank his tunic over his head and to throw his belt onto the floor along with his boots and breeches. Wilder smiled, beckoning him into his arms, but Anders first went for the bottle of oil they kept tucked away in a trunk.

Ah, of course. Wilder wriggled with anticipation. It was always nicer to rub against each other when they were both slick with oil. But again Anders surprised him. Instead of laying beside him and wrapping a well-oiled hand around Wilder's cock, he knelt between Wilder's spread legs, dipped his finger in the bottle, and then brought the digit to Wilder's entrance.

Wilder jolted at the feeling. Anders's touch was warm, but the oil was considerably cooler. "There?" he asked.

Anders nodded. He gestured to his cock, too large and heavy to stand against his stomach despite his own arousal, and then the finger at Wilder's rim pressed a little more firmly.

Inside? There was a part of Wilder that was shocked. It wasn't that he was unaware of this particular intimacy between lovers. It was only—how could all of Anders possibly fit inside of him? But it was a very small part of Wilder. The rest of him had long been waiting for Anders's touch, and the idea that they might soon be joined together in such a way—

"Yes," Wilder said. "Please, Anders."

He received a kiss first—before anything, they always kissed and then Anders slipped his finger inside him.

"Oh!" A strange sensation to be sure, but not unpleasant. Wilder squirmed, clenching around Anders as he crooked his finger to stroke at the tight muscle. Anders kissed him again, their lips pressed together as he slowly, slowly worked Wilder open.

His cock bobbed between his legs with each flick of Anders's wrist. He ached. He wanted to rut against Anders's belly, to rub their cocks together. But he wanted Anders inside him, too, and so Wilder waited, gasping and whining, through Anders's ministrations. More oil, and soft kisses, and the pump of one finger that eventually became two, and Wilder's toes curling into the furs, until eventually he could not stand it.

The next time Anders leaned over him for a kiss, Wilder held his head between his palms, so close their lashes touched, and said, "Please, I'm ready."

So too was Anders. He slathered his red, leaking cock with oil with one hand while the other squeezed at the base. Wilder hungrily took in the sight. Anders's solid muscle, the thickness of his thighs, chest, and stomach, the hairiness of him, the sweat trailing down his biceps, the sheer length and girth of his cock. Anders had been a warrior, and his body bore the scars of a lifetime of battle. But he'd traded in his sword. Anders's purpose was now to be by Wilder's side, and Wilder's to be at his.

"Anders," Wilder murmured. He spread his legs, nibbling at his lower lip, waiting impatiently for his husband to touch him again. "I want to feel you."

He would have begged, pleaded, but there was no need to. As soon as the words left his lips Anders was on top of him, guiding his cock to Wilder's entrance, easing inside of him with a patience that was at odds with the trembling of his thighs, the heaving of his chest, the desire in his gaze.

They both groaned in relief when Anders rocked his hips and, in an instant, they were joined as one.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Wilder felt the familiar squeeze at his hip.

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