Hamilton gives an experimental nip, sharper than the others, and only pleasure greets it. Only twitching and squeezing muscles that make him hitch his hips, like he could get deeper, deeper. It feels strange, the heartbeat at the base of his cock, where he's swollen. It still feels hot -- he's growing more aroused even before his knot can diminish. Burr smells so good, so perfect and safe and eager.

Burr is starting to sleep, Hamilton thinks, but he can focus on nothing else but that little gland, his teeth, the openness of Burr's body.

He cannot resist it; he can't, he can't. He rubs his nose on Burr, and fucks into him, short thrusts that have nowhere to go -- no, more rocking back and forth than thrusting -- and he makes a sound of need, and then he's biting, sinking his teeth fiercely in at Burr's throat. He must, he must. Burr is so perfect, and he must.