"No one knows you better than I do," Burr says, when Hamilton tries to scorn him. Always difficult, and sensitive, lying even to himself. "Not even Betsy--you would never reveal to her those things you've revealed to me, in the throes of your pleasure. I always knew them from the moment I Saw You. You couldn't hide."

Watching the movement of those throat muscles as he swallows, shifting on his cock. How long till it goes down, and he is horny again? Or how long until he wants rest, or to nest?

"I don't wish to rehash old tales," and when Hamilton is done with his drink he reaches out, snags him back down, so there bodies are pressed together. Massaging him, as he did before--soothing what he is sure is a sore ass. "Anything Jefferson purports to believe publicly is usually quite different than what he actually believes, and the duplicity of Wilkinson's character proved useful to him, in a time when he wished to ensure I was ruined irreparably."

But he doesn't want to talk about this. Not now, here where everything has been so wonderful. "How are you feeling," he asks, hands skating low. "Are you sore? Was it too much?"