"I would take you in hand," Burr says, squeezing over the thickness that is pressing against the front of Hamilton's breeches, "stoke you, lick you to completion, but I am afraid we really must be adults about this," begins to work his hand up and down, drinking in those gasps, that quickened breathing, "and learn to control our base desires," he pulls away with a final squeeze, against where he can make out the tip, through those layers of fabric, sitting back on the bed, "for little Theo is not yet done feeding, and she really must take precedence before you in my heart."

Hamilton's face is red, his legs parted, laying there sprawled against the bed looking pitiful and confused and wanting. Burr laughs, sitting back and readjusting Theo, helping her to maintain her latch on his nipple, though she is not very gentle for a newborn. What was it Mrs. Smith said about easing that soreness? Some recipe for a cream, which of course they did not have the ingredients to, as far as Burr knew.

His body is indeed ravaged, following the pregnancy--his stomach still swollen a good deal, organs misplaced and uterus expanded. How long till he regains that slender form, bony and lean? Not that it seems to make a difference to Hamilton, whose interest in Burr's body has not waned at all from the early months to the later ones. Perhaps he has a bit of a fetish, for a swollen body, plump with life. A theory to consider exploring more in the future.

"A pity," Burr sighs, watching Hamilton out of the corner of his eye. "I would have let you fuck my throat."