"Perhaps you were right to fear," he says, his eyes caught on the movement of Hamilton's fingers, the small goosebumps that follow. Such a command over his flesh, even now, as tired as he is. "I have no problem finishing you, over and over and over. What would you have done, I wonder, if I had come for you in Nevis? Barely mature and already selling yourself, I'm sure. When did it start, I wonder, and would you have taken me, as you do now?"

Was he nineteen? Eighteen? Would Burr have cared, been able to stop himself? Perhaps it would have been better, for Burr to take him from that place, for all he would have been unable to keep his hands off him, once he knew he was a whore, and was amenable to sharing his body in those ways.

A wretched boat ride made better by a small, tight body. Willing, and pretty, for all he was the Hamilton he knew all those years ago.