Burr doesn't hesitate, to lick that slick from him, that issues from between his thighs, the seat of sinful pleasures. He laps, drinks it in, as much as the wonderful, wretched sounds that spill from Hamilton himself.

"Oh yes," Burr says, face damp between ministrations, "your mouth looks much better around those sounds than forming any foolish political speeches. I wonder if it might look even better, with a cock in it?"

et this is not Burr's plan, as Hamilton pulls him up and kisses him, licks his own slick out of Burr's mouth, surging into him.

"Funny, I feel the sudden urge to double mine," and he leans forward then and bites Alexander, his scent gland, latches on as his hand drags through those trails of cum. He brings his hand up between then as he pulls away, maintains eye contact as he laps Hamilton's come from his skin, grinning wickedly.

And he does look beautiful--skin flushed, youthful and perfect, and god how old even is he? Should Burr have asked? Much younger than his own children would be, had they lived, yet it is hard to draw up guilt anymore. The flush creeps down his face, his neck, over his chest, and Burr reaches out, roughly pulls the shirt from him, so he can see the hardening nipples, can bend down and nibble one, working it between his teeth, drawing out more of those sounds.

"Not satisfied yet, then?" as he watched those blown eyes, heaving chest. "I should have known you'd be a better whore than a statesman," his second hand, working between his legs, testing fingers pushing suddenly into him, wet and dripping, heat-struck.