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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 Anders would 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 in Anders'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.

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 solid bulk. 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 of him, 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.

May I? Anders asked.

He nodded. "Yes, Anders. I feel—it's good."

Anders's gaze softened. He nuzzled Wilder's nose with his, smiling when Wilder laughed. Palms on either side of Wilder's head, fingers clenched into the furs, Anders began to move his hips in the slightest, smallest of motions that still left Wilder breathless. "Oh," he said. "Anders."

Lips against his ear, Anders murmured in his deep, rough voice, "Wilder."

His first, true thrust made Wilder cry out. "Ah! That—" Unable to find the words, Wilder instead kissed his jaw. Seemingly encouraged, Anders thrust again, groaning into the crook of Wilder's neck, beard rubbing against his skin. "Like that—please, just like that—"

Wilder could barely wrap his legs around him. Every time Wilder thought he'd successfully hooked one ankle over the other, Anders thrust into him again, sending him flailing, scrabbling to keep hold of him, until finally Wilder simply spread his wider and lifted his hips and raked his nails along Anders's back as his husband took him with single-minded fervor. Wilder felt at once both light-headed and incredibly tense. Anders's cock filled him, while his own cock was trapped between their stomachs. Completely abandoning himself to pleasure, Wilder rutted against Anders's bulk, chasing his release.

He was close—he was so close. Wilder repeated a prayer of his own making, "Anders, Anders, oh God, Anders—Ah!" He screamed, clutching at Anders as he shivered through his orgasm, his spend smearing on their stomachs as Anders continued to move. Even through a haze of pleasure, Wilder could tell that his husband was also near his climax. A bead of sweat rolled down Anders's cheek and fell from his jaw, splattering onto Wilder's throat. He panted, his mouth open and wet. His gaze was fixed on Wilder's flushed, bare form. His hands were curled into fists, the muscles in his arms tense. He lost his rhythm as he alternated between the sharp bursts of pleasure from short, quick snaps of his hips and the indulgence of deep, languid thrusts.

"Finish inside me," Wilder said, and Anders blinked down at him and pulled him into a rough embrace and moaned, loudly and desperately, as he filled Wilder with his cum.

This, too, was a husband's duty, Wilder thought as Anders rolled them to their sides so that his back was pressed to Anders's chest. It was a very welcome one.

Once he'd caught his breath, Wilder turned, brushing a lock of sweaty hair from Anders's face. "Good?" he asked.

Anders kissed him.

He knew that to mean, Good .

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