Page 30 of The Warrior and the Monk

Wilder ducked under the water and popped back up with a shake of his head, his curls dripping and stuck to his cheeks. Behind him, he heard Anders splashing through the water toward him, his shadow slowly overtaking Wilder. "Anders?" he asked, turning.

And audibly swallowed as he glanced down between Anders's legs.

That night when he awoke to the sounds of Anders pleasuring himself—then, he'd only been able to imagine what Anders looked like. The length of him, the thickness, how muscled his thighs, how hairy he might be.

Well, now he knew. Anders's legs were as thick and muscled and hairy as the rest of him, and his cock, already impressive in appearance from Wilder's extremely limited experience, grew harder and more flushed by the moment as Anders hungrily took in Wilder's nude form. Wilder shivered, both from the intensity of Anders's gaze and from his wet, bare skin exposed to the air.

What a difference there was between the two of them! Wilder was a head shorter than Anders and half his size. For as gentle and shy as Anders was, raw strength was visible on every inch of Anders's body. It was nearly overwhelming—the thought that Anders could have done anything he wanted from the moment Wilder had left the beach with him, and yet all he'd done was cook Wilder egg tarts and kiss him and—pull his fingers into his mouth. Wilder had to turn away, flustered at his own arousal.

Warmth enveloped him. Anders's arms wrapped around his waist, his chest to Wilder's back. His cock, pressed againstWilder's ass, throbbed with heat. Was that all because of him? Anders, who was the handsomest of men, found something pleasing in Wilder's freckled skin and lean muscle? Anders's roving hands and quickened breath certainly seemed to indicate so.

Kiss, Anders signed with a pleading expression. Kiss.

Wilder turned his head and kissed him, then gasped as Anders shifted, his cock squeezing between Wilder's thighs, rubbing their lengths together. Anders thrust once, then again, and again. One hand squeezed greedily at Wilder's ass, while the other explored his chest, fingers pinching his nipples. Wilder moaned. An extremely pleased sound rumbled from Anders's chest. He pressed ever closer, kissing Wilder more firmly, tongue tracing Wilder's lips as he rubbed and squeezed and pinched every part of Wilder he could touch with his hands.

He shivered when Anders ran his palm along his stomach and reached lower to wrap his hand around Wilder's cock, wet and glistening with water and precum. Anders groaned as though just having his hand around Wilder gave him pleasure. He pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to Wilder's neck as he stroked Wilder's cock. With a wanton moan, Wilder clutched Anders's arms, nails digging into his skin. Anders's touch was too much and yet not enough. His own pleasure was building and building—Wilder bit his lower lip, his muscles tensing. "Anders," he said. "Anders, Anders, Anders—"

He came in Anders's hand, smearing his rough, calloused fingers with hot, sticky cum.

"Oh, God." Wilder's legs shook with the force of his orgasm. "God." He would have collapsed boneless in the water had Anders not been hugging him to his chest. Glancing down, Wilder saw the mess dripping from his stomach and Anders's hand and, to his amazement, the tip of Anders's cock poking from between his legs as the man continued to rut franticallyas he chased his own release. Dazed and slightly giddy, Wilder thought, he's using my thighs.

Anders let out an almost bestial groan. Though he'd been expecting it—waiting for it—Wilder was still surprised by Anders's climax. The sheer amount of it, spilling on Wilder's legs and into the river, how Anders continued to fuck his thighs through it until his desperate groans turned to wet pants against Wilder's ear. He growled, "Wilder," and kissed his shoulder. Eventually his hips stopped, and they stood there holding one another with the river running around them.

A little unsure of what to say but certain some response was necessary, Wilder said, "I liked that."

Anders grinned and tugged at Wilder's spent, softening cock, as if to say, I'm well aware.

They washed, slowly, and with a great deal more kissing.

Chapter Eleven

These were a husband's duties:

To be woken in the morning by the warmth of a kiss, the soft pressure of lips that lingered just long enough to coax him from his dreams, and a roving hand that trailed across his chest, lingering on the curve of his side before slipping under the covers to stir him from slumber. There was no rush, no urgency—just the slow, steady rhythm of waking up together, with the promise of a day shared.

To rise, stretch, and move together in the soft light of morning. To prepare breakfast side by side—chopping vegetables, stirring eggs in a pan, the crackling of the fire a comforting background to their easy chatter. He would set the table, Anders would fetch the milk, and the sound of the kettle being filled would make Wilder smile. They would eat together, hands brushing as they passed dishes back and forth, their laughter light, their smiles warm. The simple joy of sharing a meal was enough to make everything else fade away. Wilder learned the value of this quiet intimacy, the unspoken bond that passed between them as they sat together, savoring the meal, savoring the moments.

To spend the early hours tending to the garden, hands dirtied by the rich soil as they worked together—each pulling weeds from the earth, tending to the flowers, trimming the herbs, the sun already warming their skin. Sometimes Anderswould feed the animals while Wilder worked with the garden. Other times, the roles were reversed—Wilder would tend to the animals while Anders watered the plants. The cows would be milked, the goats tended to, and the hens would be checked for eggs—sometimes warm from the body of a hen, sometimes cool and still. The routine was grounding, and though it was simple work, it was work that mattered. Every task had a purpose. Every chore connected them to the earth, to each other.

In the afternoon, when the sun was high and the work was done, they would air out the furs and blankets, shaking them out and letting them dry in the breeze. There was no rush here, no sense of hurry—just the contentment that came from knowing their work would keep them warm in the winter months to come. If clothes needed washing or mending, they would sit together, sewing and stitching, passing the time with quiet conversation and the occasional laugh as they worked side by side. It was a peaceful rhythm, the kind that Wilder had never known but had quickly come to appreciate.

And when it came time to pray, it was not in the cold, stone confines of the monastery—no more dark, damp walls surrounding him, no more distant echoes of chanting and bells. No, now Wilder knelt in the soft, warm grass, head bowed, the sun’s rays stroking the back of his neck, its warmth like a gentle touch. His prayers, once rote and repetitive, had become something more personal. Here, in the open air, there was a connection to something greater, something that stretched beyond the walls of a stone building, something that filled him with gratitude for the simple beauty of the life he had.

Later in the day, they would go to the river to fish, the sound of the water rushing over stones filling the space around them. Wilder would cast the line, patiently waiting for a nibble, watching the ripples spread out from the tip of the rod. The thrill of the tug on the line, the sharp pull as a fish was caught,was enough to make his heart race, but there was also peace in the wait, in the rhythm of casting and reeling, casting and reeling. Sometimes, the fish would be small, a bream or a perch, wriggling as they were lifted from the water. Other times, they would be larger, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were together, enjoying the stillness of the river, the quiet solitude that they shared.

And when they returned, there would be another kiss—soft and lingering, the promise of evening to come. Anders would stoke the fire, and Wilder would prepare the fish. They would cook it over the flames, letting the rich aroma fill the air. Sometimes the fish would be roasted whole, other times gutted and baked with herbs, or made into a fragrant soup. Whatever they decided, it was always the same: it was food prepared with care, shared with love.

When the meal was done, they would wash together. The heat of the water, the warmth of each other’s touch as they cleaned the grime of the day away—every stroke of the cloth felt like an act of devotion, a moment of connection. Wilder would close his eyes and lean into Anders's touch, the pressure of his hands as they washed his back, the way they moved with ease and familiarity. There was something sacred in the act, something that made Wilder feel seen, cared for, loved.

And then, when the day's work was done, they would curl beneath the furs, tangled together in the warmth. There was nothing more than this—the soft rustling of the blankets, the steady rise and fall of their breath, the feel of Anders's arm draped protectively across his middle, keeping him close. They would sleep, side by side, the world outside fading into the background, just the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms.

This was married life. Some of it was familiar to Wilder, the quiet moments of companionship, the work that grounded him in the here and now. Some of it was new, the tenderness inAnders's touch, the way their routines had become intertwined. There were things he had never expected—like how often they would laugh over something as simple as a meal or a shared glance—but Wilder had come to realize that it was in these moments, these small acts of care, that the true beauty of their life together lay. And though there were challenges ahead, things they would have to learn together, Wilder had decided that, on the whole, he enjoyed it. He enjoyed this life they were building. A life full of quiet mornings, shared work, love, and laughter. It was a life, Wilder thought, that he would never have imagined for himself. But now, it was the only life he wanted.

???

Berries grew in the forest, nestled among shrubbery like a collection of small, shining jewels. Blackberries and raspberries Wilder knew. He'd eaten them at the monastery and enjoyed them far too much than was considered appropriate; the monks would examine his red-stained fingers and admonish him for his gluttony. But here an appetite was not considered sinful. Wilder enjoyed them, and they were nearby, so it only made sense to gather them and eat them with relish.

Then there was a type of berry Wilder had never seen before—lingonberries. Small, round, and red like rubies and tart, as Wilder had found out when he impulsively popped one into his mouth. His expression had made Anders laugh. But they could be cooked into jam or sauce, and the latter especially paired well with meat, as Wilder had found out when Anders prepared roasted duck served with a ladleful of lingonberry sauce. That dish had quickly become one of their favorites—Wilder's to eat, Anders's to prepare for Wilder—and as such, any time Wilder saw a lingonberry bush he gathered what he could and returned home eager to present Anders with the day's find.

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