Yes, yes, he would be desperate for it, would let Washington do anything to him, fuck him anywhere, in front of anyone, if only to feel that length pushing into him, knotting him. He is naked now, but Hamilton still does not touch him, pins Burr's hands above his head, leaves him to writhe.

"He would fuck me till it hurt," Burr says, trying to jerk his hips upward and failing. His legs are opened too wide to get any real leverage, and he can feel now the liquid building, the wetness of him against the open air. Hamilton, staring down at him, still fully dressed. Hard, though his breeches.

"Push me open until I ached. Perhaps he would not even wait, till we were in his office, but bend me over some crate in the field, fuck me open in front of all the men. And perhaps he would leave me there," Burr says, makes a small, desperate noise as he imagines it, eyes falling closed, "wet and dripping and desperate, leave me there, nothing but a hole for the men to use, to line up, one after the other, fill me with their come, their knots, over and over."

"There would be no doubt then, that I would be pregnant. But we would have no clue who the father was. It could be anyone--" and Burr does get the leverage then, tightening those sore abdominal muscles past pain to sit upward, to latch his teeth around Hamilton's scent.

"Anyone except you."