"Of course it does -- I could ply your body with attention a thousand ways and you would love every one." Burr is his slut, his sweet slut. He trembles for it, almost unable to stay upright under Hamilton's hard thrusts. "Do you think you could come for me just like this? Just as I use your arse, and leave the rest of you neglected?"

The plea is not one he expected at all. Gag me Burr begged, once, but not this. He hesitates; and the first hesitation is a shameful one, because he thinks primarily that he must not leave a mark, that it would be awful to leave the inn in the morning with the signs of such abuse on his husband, and only one who could be the perpetrator. Then, as the image resolves in his mind, he still hesitates, because Burr has a habit of asking for things that will hurt him, that he wants in the instant of desire but that carry a heavy price later.

But it's unmistakeable how his cock twitched and how he surged forward at the plea, even though he went still, buried deep, to consider it. A pause of a few seconds, no more, as the above thoughts run through his mind, and then he folds forward over Burr. Has to lean some of his weight on the omega, the rest on his arm braced on the bed, as he deliberately takes Burr's throat in his hand. He does not squeeze, not any harder than necessary to feel Burr's throat work, to detect that soft rabbiting pulse.

He resumes his fucking, and this time he can't pull away as far, so they are short thrusts, buried deep, and the way he has leverage against Burr's body, the way he holds Burr in place to be fucked, is mostly the hand at his throat.

"Tell me why you want it." This is a command; his hand is a teasing taunt without real pressure. "Tell me what you need."