Oh, now that's not fair -- how can it be that Hamilton feels like he's the one here who has to fight to keep up? Burr kisses more like a whore than Alexander himself does, dragging a moan out of him with his sly tongue. How does Burr always get him so off-balance? Alexander is certainly experienced enough to know how to rid a man of trousers without ever breaking a kiss, so why is it that he barely has the presence of mind to clutch at Burr?
The cabinet is much steadier than Alexander's own legs are. He finally has caught on to the fact that Burr wants him now, immediately, and he moves accordingly, lifting himself obligingly for the breeches to be removed, scooting a little back so he has the balance to tip against the wall and wrap his legs around Burr's waist.
Except that's not what happens. Burr goes to his knees, and, in front of Hamilton's wide eyes, breathes in.
Hamilton whimpers, melting against the wall, like the maiden he most certainly isn't. Just at the idea of it, the long breath, the closed eyes, how he revels in the smell. Doesn't he know? Doesn't he know that Alexander has fallen the lowest he could fall, is desperate, is already defiled, has dispensed with every possible purity and virginity he could think of, has put his body up for purchase, and done it gladly? Doesn't he know Alexander is only worth, in this moment, the pleasure that can be extracted from his firm body?
He must know -- and yet, instead of rushing to penetrate him, Burr buries his nose in his cunt and has the audacity to look at him as he drags his tongue up. His tongue meets answering slick, enough to drip, and fluttering pulse palpable in the warmth of Alexander's body. The high, shocked sound Alexander makes is another embarrassment, but he is quickly forgetting about those. Hooks his leg over Burr's shoulder, and opens himself up to attentions so wickedly perfect that he cannot stop the cascade of pleasured sounds, gasps when he forgets to breathe, little whimpers as he bites his lip.
"You," manages Alexander, "you are welcome, you know, to bury your shot in my body -- so long as you use -- ah -- a different pistol, oh, oh, there, just there," forgetting what he was saying and arching up, heel digging into Burr's back. Burr's tongue has found itself pressing in long licks at the top of his slit and just inside, where he feels unbearably sensitive, and his hips rock against it, hand reaching out to weave into the grey hair. Burr's grip goes under the curve of Alexander's ass, lifting just enough that he's no longer in danger from slipping off the cabinet entirely.
Burr's enjoyment is obvious, whether his eyes are open or have flicked closed, and Alexander burns with pleasure of being wanted, and the pleasure of being pleasured, of being someone's sole focus. Every time he almost settles into a rhythm, grinding himself against Burr's tongue, Burr switches it up, finds somewhere else, relentlessly opens Alexander's body on his tongue. Not that he needs to be relentless; Alexander is blooming for him, falling away, leaving nothing but need behind.
"Oh please," he begs, "oh please, please, yes--" And he has feigned the need behind these words more times than he can count, but there is nothing feigned about this. He keeps expecting Burr to back off and drag him to bed, penetrate him, kiss him, something, but no such thing happens, and Alexander finds himself scrambling to grip on the cabinet, Burr's hair, anything, as a swell of rapturous pleasure starts just there, where Burr's tongue strokes, bright and unbearable, and then the ecstatic convulsions of climax are working their way through him, all the way up into his belly and down into his thighs, his cock untouched striping his shirt with come.
He cannot catch his breath. He stares with wide eyes at the man who surely must be some kind of witch, and who has Alexander bought for the whole night, and who could work that witchcraft over and over again.
He surges forward and licks his own taste off that tongue, kissing with a true ardor of which he hadn't thought himself capable, in this life.
"I feel the sudden urge to discount your rate," he manages, between heaving breaths.
no subject
The cabinet is much steadier than Alexander's own legs are. He finally has caught on to the fact that Burr wants him now, immediately, and he moves accordingly, lifting himself obligingly for the breeches to be removed, scooting a little back so he has the balance to tip against the wall and wrap his legs around Burr's waist.
Except that's not what happens. Burr goes to his knees, and, in front of Hamilton's wide eyes, breathes in.
Hamilton whimpers, melting against the wall, like the maiden he most certainly isn't. Just at the idea of it, the long breath, the closed eyes, how he revels in the smell. Doesn't he know? Doesn't he know that Alexander has fallen the lowest he could fall, is desperate, is already defiled, has dispensed with every possible purity and virginity he could think of, has put his body up for purchase, and done it gladly? Doesn't he know Alexander is only worth, in this moment, the pleasure that can be extracted from his firm body?
He must know -- and yet, instead of rushing to penetrate him, Burr buries his nose in his cunt and has the audacity to look at him as he drags his tongue up. His tongue meets answering slick, enough to drip, and fluttering pulse palpable in the warmth of Alexander's body. The high, shocked sound Alexander makes is another embarrassment, but he is quickly forgetting about those. Hooks his leg over Burr's shoulder, and opens himself up to attentions so wickedly perfect that he cannot stop the cascade of pleasured sounds, gasps when he forgets to breathe, little whimpers as he bites his lip.
"You," manages Alexander, "you are welcome, you know, to bury your shot in my body -- so long as you use -- ah -- a different pistol, oh, oh, there, just there," forgetting what he was saying and arching up, heel digging into Burr's back. Burr's tongue has found itself pressing in long licks at the top of his slit and just inside, where he feels unbearably sensitive, and his hips rock against it, hand reaching out to weave into the grey hair. Burr's grip goes under the curve of Alexander's ass, lifting just enough that he's no longer in danger from slipping off the cabinet entirely.
Burr's enjoyment is obvious, whether his eyes are open or have flicked closed, and Alexander burns with pleasure of being wanted, and the pleasure of being pleasured, of being someone's sole focus. Every time he almost settles into a rhythm, grinding himself against Burr's tongue, Burr switches it up, finds somewhere else, relentlessly opens Alexander's body on his tongue. Not that he needs to be relentless; Alexander is blooming for him, falling away, leaving nothing but need behind.
"Oh please," he begs, "oh please, please, yes--" And he has feigned the need behind these words more times than he can count, but there is nothing feigned about this. He keeps expecting Burr to back off and drag him to bed, penetrate him, kiss him, something, but no such thing happens, and Alexander finds himself scrambling to grip on the cabinet, Burr's hair, anything, as a swell of rapturous pleasure starts just there, where Burr's tongue strokes, bright and unbearable, and then the ecstatic convulsions of climax are working their way through him, all the way up into his belly and down into his thighs, his cock untouched striping his shirt with come.
He cannot catch his breath. He stares with wide eyes at the man who surely must be some kind of witch, and who has Alexander bought for the whole night, and who could work that witchcraft over and over again.
He surges forward and licks his own taste off that tongue, kissing with a true ardor of which he hadn't thought himself capable, in this life.
"I feel the sudden urge to discount your rate," he manages, between heaving breaths.