Oh, Burr does not need to be told twice. When he kisses he devours, pushing Alexander back, back, with the press of his body, shoving a leg between his legs roughly for him to grind on, and with his hands he continues palming at Hamilton's ass, pressing between his legs where he knows slick must be growing.

The pants are really in the way. Really he has no use of them, why is he still wearing them? And Burr, with his hands under Hamilton's ass and more strength than he should have at his age, lifts Hamilton up, sets him on the short cupboard. Continuing to kiss, licking into his mouth, fucking in with his tongue, all the tricks he had learned from those french whores. Pulling away, gasping, to drink in the sight of him, red faced and mussed and needy.

Yes, yes, good. How Burr always wanted to see him, for each political barb, each small, testing jab, Hamilton had always responded so wonderfully. Too long though, taking too long.

He reaches for the edge of Hamilton's breeches, tugs them off his legs, leaves his shoes and stocking, drops to his knees. Nose, hovering before his wet cunt, and he closes his eyes and breathes in, nosing forward. He smells so good, so needy. Young and virile and fertile. Burr opens his eyes, looks up at him, piercing, as he leans forward and licks, dragging his tongue though gathering slick.

Give him a good time. Yes, Burr could pleasure him, and well. Had done nothing much but whore since his death. Preparing for this, perhaps. Nothing headier, than giving pleasure, feeling them come on his tongue.