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Lorne was trying to politely extricate himself from the table without making a scene, but the jovial little man’s originally subtle advances were becoming increasingly more forward as he drank. He was outright leering as he squeezed Lorne’s thigh and his fingers brushed higher. Lorne gritted his teeth and let him, assuming the guy would finally give up when he realized Lorne wasn’t playing hard to get, he wasn’t hard at all.
Lorne froze as he heard the threatening whine of Ronon’s weapon. The barrel slid across his other thigh and nudged the creeping fingers. The man’s eyes bugged out as he snatched them away, wisely scooting down the bench.
Ronon took a swig of wine from the man’s discarded mug with his free hand while he kept the other in Lorne’s lap, the gun pressed up against his sudden, painful erection. The mug slammed down on the table, teetering on the warped boards, and Lorne caught it, grateful to have something to squeeze in his hands as he tried to breathe.
Ronon leaned closer and smirked in his face before standing to holster his gun. “You coming?” he growled.
Lorne shivered and tried to suppress a groan. “Fuck, yes.”
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