Alexander Hamilton is not known for his gifts at self-restraint, his ability to calm himself, or any inclination to deny himself what he wants.
So this is fucking torture.
A sweet torture; a torturer he would submit to with wholehearted joy. But: torture.
"If she were not here," growls Hamilton, "and you were not wounded still..." The look he shoots Burr is heated and full of promise.
But: He. Will. Control. Himself.
He closes his eyes, taking a slow breath, not moving yet, and attempting to will down the rigid length trapped in his breeches. It throbs with his heartbeat, a palpable longing to bury itself in Burr's hot and welcoming mouth, squeezed by that long, lovely throat.
"What you excite in me," he sighs, and he starts to sit up. "I would plunge myself wholly into a snowbank to ease this heat, but you conjure these images in my mind, where they cannot be contained or purged -- what keen torture."
How he aches for Burr.
"So, because I think it is torture that you will enjoy," and Hamilton murmurs this in Burr's ear, shifting up next to him, "I will deny myself any touch until you are well enough to grant me yours." He thinks Burr will like it, the idea that he is in control of when Hamilton's pleasure resumes. The idea of Hamilton's body in his thrall.
no subject
So this is fucking torture.
A sweet torture; a torturer he would submit to with wholehearted joy. But: torture.
"If she were not here," growls Hamilton, "and you were not wounded still..." The look he shoots Burr is heated and full of promise.
But: He. Will. Control. Himself.
He closes his eyes, taking a slow breath, not moving yet, and attempting to will down the rigid length trapped in his breeches. It throbs with his heartbeat, a palpable longing to bury itself in Burr's hot and welcoming mouth, squeezed by that long, lovely throat.
"What you excite in me," he sighs, and he starts to sit up. "I would plunge myself wholly into a snowbank to ease this heat, but you conjure these images in my mind, where they cannot be contained or purged -- what keen torture."
How he aches for Burr.
"So, because I think it is torture that you will enjoy," and Hamilton murmurs this in Burr's ear, shifting up next to him, "I will deny myself any touch until you are well enough to grant me yours." He thinks Burr will like it, the idea that he is in control of when Hamilton's pleasure resumes. The idea of Hamilton's body in his thrall.