Hamilton didn't know -- God help him, he didn't know how Burr would smell, that it would be so delectable, so delicious that it altogether bypassed his nose, that he would feel it, obscenely, where his cock has started to swell. It is accompanied by a soft tenderness, an unbearable ache -- oh! This cannot be just an animal thing, thinks Hamilton, a rutting sickness; he can feel the tug of the connection between their hearts like it is something physical and keen, like they are bound on a higher, more rarefied plane. If it were rutting alone, Burr wouldn't just be drawn to Hamilton, and Burr ignores Washington, his strength, his virility, and lets himself be caught in Hamilton's gravity instead.

He is moving at the same time Burr is, breathlessly thrilled, like it's the first time they're touching, all over again. Burr is against him, grasping and biting. Hamilton finds it is simplicity itself to have his lover by the waist and turn them, capture Burr in the circle of his arms against the wall and press him there full-bodied, wet and needy kisses and the needy way Burr squirms against him, rolls his hips against Hamilton's thigh.

It is not enough, and though they can't have each other right here, Hamilton wants to feel the depth and breadth of Burr's desire. He works his hand in between Burr and his thigh, and presses the heel of his palm up between Burr's legs.

Oh -- there -- helpless slick slowly spreading through the trousers, damp against Hamilton's fingers. He can smell it. Burr makes such sounds, and Hamilton digs in, with his thumb, moving it back and forth as though to spread the wet up and down Burr's slit, though of course he can't, with the thick fabric in the way. "You're soaking through," and it escapes him in little more than a whisper, "you're filthy, you -- my darling, my darling little slut," and he wants nothing more than to thrust against Burr until he soils the inside of his trousers with male and female spend both.