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John entered his room to find Ronon kneeling by his bed. He smiled, pleased by the sight. John had felt Ronon’s eyes on him from the moment he arrived at the banquet. He’d felt singed by the end, Ronon’s gaze full of heat, focused on him.

His full dress uniform felt even more uncomfortable than usual, the way that heat concentrated in his groin. He’d known Ronon would be attracted to the uniform, but this was more than he’d expected. Ronon had been mesmerized.

He sat on the bed, watching Ronon for a moment before finally demanding: “On your feet.” Ronon stood smoothly, eyes on the floor, hands behind his back.

“Strip.” Ronon reached for the hem of his shirt as John clarified, reminding Ronon how it should be done: “Slowly.” Ronon tended to rush through this part, eager for contact, but John liked the way his skin moved when he took his time. He loved to watch the slow bunching and stretching of powerful muscles sliding under smooth bronze skin – loved knowing that the restrained power of this amazing man was his to command.

When the last of his clothes were gone, Ronon stood before him, flexing his muscles in a subtle gesture, a reminder of what he had to offer, before moving back into position. John fought back a smile – show-off, he thought, I should make him pay for that. Maybe later.

“Come here.” He pointed to the floor between his spread legs. When Ronon was kneeling before him, John touched him – running his fingertips across the smooth skin – from the tattoo on his neck down to one already sharply pointed, erect nipple. He saw the shudder Ronon tried to hide when John took that nipple between his fingertips and twisted, pulling the reaction out of him.

“Don’t hide from me.” The warning was clear in John’s voice – he knew Ronon would struggle to suppress his reactions; old habits die hard. But John liked seeing the effect he had – it aroused him to see Ronon’s eyes close in pleasure, neck exposed in a classic posture of submission – as natural as breathing.

It still amazed him sometimes that this man – scarred by years of running, unable to stop, unable to allow himself the slightest release, would trust *him* enough to bare his throat to John – to turn over his power and willingly submit to him.

That trust still awed John, every time it was offered to him – it deserved to be rewarded. John reached into his pocket, felt the supple leather, his fingertips sliding over the smooth metal buckle.

“Look at me.” His voice was rough with emotion and need that had little to do with his arousal.

Ronon looked up, his eyes meeting John’s in surprise.

“I have something for you.” He pulled out the thin band of soft brown leather, displaying it to Ronon for a moment before ordering: “Chin up.”

Ronon was slow to respond, his eyes focused on the collar, his voice calm when he spoke. “This is for me.” Not a question.

John frowned. “You don’t want it?”

He looked up into John’s eyes then, his expression intense. “I want it.”

“You’ll be mine, then.”

Ronon’s eyes blazed: “I already am.”

“I know.” John spoke with certainty. He raised one eyebrow, cocking his head to the side in question. Ronon raised his chin and John buckled the leather around his neck, John’s fingers touching off sparks where ever they met skin, making Ronon shudder again. This time he didn’t hide it.

John nodded his approval. He tested the fit, pleased with the way the leather gleamed against Ronon’s skin. John cupped his hand around the back of Ronon’s neck, pulling him into a deep, possessive kiss – Ronon’s surrender evident in the way he moaned into John’s mouth, the pleasure he took in John’s aggression.

“Now,” John’s voice was rusty with his arousal, “I’ve been thinking about your mouth all day.” He pulled Ronon’s hand around, pressing it against his groin, his swollen cock evident even through the dark blue material. Ronon pulled his hard cock out and bent his head to lick the crown. John smiled, pleased by the feel of the cool buckle as his hand caressed the nape of Ronon’s neck, the soft dreads brushing the backs of his fingers.

John spoke quietly, possessively – no doubt in his voice.

“Mine.”

He barely heard Ronon’s whispered reply, as he took John’s cock into his mouth.

“Yours.”