"As you said, you've soiled my clothing. I don't see how I could go, without a good measure of embarrassment. Though letting all of New York see how I've taken you has its appeal. The same as you swelling with my child does--" turning heated as the end, and Burr's hand drifts down again to massage at his ass. Not probing, but claiming. "Why should you want to go to the west, when you have someone here who can satisfy you? Don't tell me you've ever been fucked like that before."

And as he speaks Burr continues his massage, deep into the tissue of his ass and back. Starts those little purrs, which omegas in heat find so appealing. "You should like to nest, shouldn't you? Hm, perhaps I should bring you some blankets. Fine things, for my whore. Soft things, and beautiful, jeweled things. Nothing compared to your own looks, of course. Perfect eyes, hair as men weave tales of. If one saw you swimming, I daresay they would take you for a siren."

Oh, but for all those things, for all that Hamilton used to enjoy dressing himself in fine things like a paradise bird's plummage, there are things he might like more, for his current situation.

"Or books--" Burr says. "I should like to surround you with books. Fine parchment, silver-tipped quills. What would you write, this time around? Still try to shake New York politics to the core, even swollen with my child?"