Alexander, Alexander, Alexander, Alexander--the steady manta in Burr's head at that beautiful body tightening on him, at the way he falls apart so wonderfully, beautiful and wounded and perfect.

Burr can hardly move, carved out, panting, yet still he responds to Hamilton's whimpers, rolls them so Hamilton is on top, cradles him against his chest.

"Shhh," Burr whispers, "It's alright now. You can feel it, can't you? My seed inside you. Soothing your heat--you'll be alright. You can rest--my beautiful little whore." And Burr strokes his hair, rocks him gently, as one would do a baby. His mind is still caught up on the image--Hamilton bent over Washington's desk, Burr himself, on his knees for Hamilton's cock, Hamilton, with his hand down his pants as Burr worked, oblivious, just across the room.

A little twitch, to his aching cock--oversensitive, abused. But it is too soon, and these things, pulled from Hamilton in the grips of pleasure, will have to be savored. Tucked away for another time. Burr has no intention of letting him go, now. Not after so perfect a tumble, the two of them, coming together so beautifully. Not after tasting him.