The passage into Burr's body seems even tighter than usual, though so slippery, so soaked, that Laurens can hardly believe it. Burr is always so wet, so willing, but this is something altogether else. It seems thinner, this wet, and it drips; Laurens cannot recall the other omega he experienced in heat doing anything quite this demonstrative, and he can't deny that it affects him. Burr's body seems to run wild with the need to be penetrated.

He should have Burr well-pinned, and his attention is entirely on the squelch his fingers make as they dig in, make Burr shake for it. This must be how Burr is able to squirm away from him, that and his feral instinct giving him an unaccustomed strength.

"Aaron--" Laurens cries, in protest -- "Hamilton, remember --" And his hands dig in at Burr's hips, holding him still, trying to hold him still, even though Laurens' own length strains to bury itself. He would gladly mate Burr, mate him over and over. "Alexander!"

But this doesn't seem to have the desired effect, as Burr swallows him down, and, God, he wonders if Alexander has been using Aaron's throat more than he thought, because Aaron takes him better than any slut, any whore Laurens has known. The strength of desperation? But his throat shudders at the tip of Laurens' cock, and his tongue works and works on the underside, and Laurens cannot breathe. His hand fists in Burr's hair.