Page 34 of The Beauty and His Beast

One—two—three—four pumps of his fist, and Everild’s cum coated Camdyn’s fingers, his stomach. He collapsed on top of the younger man, exhausted.

They held each other on the bed, hot and sticky and spent and completely content.

“I’ll get a rag,” Everild said eventually. “I need to clean you off.”

Camdyn shook his head. “Later.”

“They’ll have a bath ready—“

“Later,” his husband repeated. “Just stay here with me.”

Everild didn’t argue with that. He said, “Okay,” and had Camdyn nestle against his side as usual, an arm thrown around his waist. “How do you feel? Was that all right?”

He wasn’t quite sure, but Everild thought Camdyn was blushing redder now than he had when Everild was sucking his cock. “I liked it,” his husband murmured.

“It wasn’t too much?”

“No, I want—I’d like to do it again. If you’d like to.”

Chuckling, Everild said, “Later. I’d very much like to, but we’ll have to wait till later.” He gave Camdyn’s shoulder a shake. “Your lord husband’s old.”

“You’re not!” Camdyn cried, outraged.

“I’m an old husband, and I’ll be an even older king.”

“You’ll be a handsome king. They’ll call you Everild the Fair.”

“With my beautiful consort, Camdyn the Blind.”

Camdyn shrieked with laughter and buried himself in the crook of Everild’s neck, and Everild could not contain the burst of joy in his heart either. They held onto each other, laughing loudly.

He hoped the castle could hear that, too—their happiness with one another.

Chapter Eight

In the days following his and Everild’s newfound intimacy, Camdyn still rose for prayers at the break of dawn as usual. He spent half an hour kneeling in the chapel, hands clasped together, thanking God for the path that They had set him upon. For all his fond memories of the monastery and his love of Cenric, Camdyn was acutely aware that he would have made a terrible cleric—his impatience, his fidgeting, his constant chatter and questions, and his tendency to run off with the younger male visitors, even if it had been out of more honest curiosity than lust. And though he still missed the monastery terribly and waited for word from Cenric, now, as a young husband to a great lord, he could be more involved in the community, in the people’s lives and their needs. With all resources now available to him, he could help them. It was a wonderful thing—praise God for Their wisdom.

And thanks be to Them for the love and care They had shown him in giving him Everild. His husband was so kind, so sweet, so handsome, and Camdyn adored him more and more every day.

Their first time together in bed had prompted a very welcome change in their morning routine. Now, after his prayers were over, Camdyn rushed back to their bedchamber, where his husband would be awake but not dressed, and they spent the early morning hours kissing and rubbing against one another. He would never get enough of Everild’s hands roving over hisbody, so deliciously rough and yet so gentle with him, so careful, nor would he ever have grown tired of his husband's lips upon his or his mouth around his member.

And—a blush crept onto his face—these were such salacious thoughts, here in the sanctity of the chapel—and he liked it when Everild came. So far, he thought he liked it best when his husband straddled him and took himself in his hand. He could watch the desperate pleasure on Everild’s face as he stroked himself, red-faced and panting, until he spilled, hot and sticky, all over Camdyn’s chest and stomach and thighs.

Only after Everild cleaned the both of them up with a warm towel and they dressed—or, in Camdyn’s case, redressed—did they call for breakfast. A slice of herb and cheese quiche or oatmeal with cinnamon and cooked apples, a small bowl of fruit—ripe blackberries and raspberries, or a shiny pile of dark red pomegranate seeds—and always fresh baked bread accompanied by a pat of rich, creamy, yellow butter. Mint tea with honey was their choice of drink in the morning hours; its flavor was light and refreshing, with the added bonus of being both good for Everild’s throat and more acceptable to his palate than black tea.

And before they left the bedchamber for their routine tasks, there was always a kiss—deep and slow and languid—so that their day began with the lingering taste of each other on their lips.

???

There had been no letters from his father, and for that, Camdyn had been incredibly relieved. In his prayers, he had always thanked both of his parents for bringing him into the world, though the gratitude was tempered with the ever-present bitterness toward his father. He thanked his father, of course, for his tireless machinations that had led to his marriage to Everild—a union Camdyn had come to cherish. Yet, alongside that, he thanked God that he hadn’t laid eyes on the man since Everild had forcefully thrown him out of the castle. The idea of his father entering his life again filled him with dread, and Camdyn hoped, with all his heart, that he would live a long, contented life far away from that looming shadow.

As for his sisters, he received regular communication from them, and their letters brought him comfort and warmth. Cera, his younger sister, always took great care in the presentation of her letters, ensuring that each one was perfumed with a delicate floral fragrance that made it feel like a personal touch. Camdyn, with his fine, neat handwriting, had found himself taking over the task of responding to Everild’s correspondence. His husband would dictate his thoughts, and Camdyn, with the utmost care, transcribed them onto the parchment, carefully shaping each word. His sister-in-law, in turn, did the same with Cera’s replies—her own form of communication, which, while sometimes a touch blunt and bordering on tactless, Camdyn had learned to navigate. Everild often grew frustrated with the pretensions of the nobility, but his exasperation rarely translated into more than heavy sighs and the occasional grumble, which Camdyn handled without complaint.

In contrast, his eldest sister, Aoife, was a tempest of emotion. She was quick to see insult in nearly every word, whether it was intended or not. Her replies were always sharp, her responses measured, and her words, more often than not, carried an undertone of reprimand. Camdyn never envied his sister-in-law’s task of tempering Aoife’s aggression. It was a delicate balancing act to ensure that Aoife’s words didn’t spark conflict or worse—a blood feud. Yet, despite the tension, Aoife’s letters were a marvel of refinement. She poured great care into her scented parchment, her elegant penmanship, and themeticulous editing of her wife’s often caustic words. Camdyn admired her ability to maintain composure while still fiercely defending her own, something he had never quite mastered.

The most recent cause for Cera’s fury was the actions of their two brothers, Gibson and Kenelm. Their half-baked scheme to take Camdyn away from Everild had enraged Cera to such an extent that even her beloved wife struggled to paraphrase her wrath. Camdyn had written to her, detailing their brothers’ plans, and the response had come almost immediately. The letter smelled of lavender, a scent so thick it nearly suffocated the words within. The letter was ornate and polished, as always, but filled with Cera’s ire. Her fury was evident in the sharply written words, and as she cursed—almost blasphemously—she assured Camdyn that their brothers would be severely reprimanded for their “monstrous stupidity and grave insult to both your marriage and your husband.” Camdyn had felt a warm glow of comfort as he read, knowing that his sister would stand by him, no matter the cost.

Aoife, too, had shown her support. Her letter had been equally heartfelt, offering comfort and reassurance. She invited him and Everild to visit her and her family anytime, a gesture that meant more than words could convey. Aoife’s gentle invitation was tinged with a hint of humor, as she explained that her husband was prone to becoming flustered when guests arrived without prior notice. Aoife signed the letter “your favorite sister, Aoife,” her official seal accompanying the flourish. Below, at the bottom of the parchment, was a small handprint in ink from Young Aoife, with a simple but heartfelt addendum: “And with love from your favorite niece, as well.” Camdyn had smiled as he read it, a sense of family and connection enveloping him, and the thought of visiting them filled him with longing.

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