"Alexander," Burr groans, and he cannot flip around to kiss him, to cradle him between his legs, though he wants to. The knot is too good, the togetherness, the streaks of pleasure, for all the disgusting fluids between them.

"Apologies, I--I didn't mean to make you wild," Burr says, "But it was--that felt so good," he breathes, and his own face heats. He is plugged with it, still, filled, and it is awful and disgusting and wonderful all at the same time, to be used by Hamilton in this manner. "I tried to make you stay longer, by forcing my scent, and--oh," another shudder, a jerk.