“I wouldn’t want to disappoint,” Athos murmurs, voice low enough that it’s nearly a growl. He runs the pad of his thumb across Porthos’ rough cheek and the line of jaw, and with great reluctance pushes away to see to the door. A master has no secrets from his servants, not matter how much he might like to pretend otherwise, but he prefers the semblance of privacy, at least.

He closes the door and leans against it, frozen for a moment with chest heaving, eyes fixed on the man sprawled on his bed.