“ Laissez-mois , Ronan,” Lazare’s throat was parched, dry--the result of a very exhausting hour. His wrists ached from where they were encircled by steel handcuffs--New, not rusty and brittle like the ones at the Bastille, but heavy nonetheless.
It was an unconventional way of dealing with their past. Anarchic, chaotic, totally against every code of conduct he knew. However, very little in their courtship had been conventional. And while Peyrol hardly wanted his men to know that their stern commander allowed a peasant to tie him up and sodomize him, he hardly wanted them to know he was having an affair with said peasant in general.
The farther his men stayed away from his intimate life, the better for all involved.
Ronan propped his head on his hands, using Lazare’s bare chest as a table, “I’m not...sure. After all...I’m just….a petit miséreux . That’s what you said, right?” Even as he gave Lazare a smug look, smugger by the lazy haze of his climax settling over him, he panted heavily. (As soon as he’d freed Lazare, he'd collapse on top of him, Lazare knew it, and it would fall to him to get the two of them under the covers.)
Lazare couldn’t help satisfaction from curling low in his chest. Ronan was content .
He was content.
He wanted to rub Ronan’s scarred back, kiss him and be kissed with that combination of affection, tenderness, and exhaustion that he always associated with Ronan after a session, however-
If only he and his poor wrists were free.
“I will have you know-”
Before Lazare could form the full sentence, Ronan’s mouth silenced him with a kiss, his hands scrambling to undo the handcuffs, and Lazare decided that, perhaps, a little anarchy might be very well after all.