Burr moans--a small, breathy thing, as Hamilton's lips meet his neck, that sudden jolt of pleasure, right to the center of him. Yes, yes, he thinks, here against the wall, let him be helpless, let him be worked over.

When Hamilton's lips meet Burr's his legs tremble, threaten to give out at the same moment he reaches out and yanks Hamilton's body against his own, flattening them against one another. Then, with that pleasant contact established, he reaches out and frames Hamilton's face with his hands, pressing lips and mouths together hard, hard enough to hurt. Wet, warm, obscene, lips moving together, pressing harder and harder, trying to fulfill some hunger that will not be fulfilled merely by contact such as this.

Good, it is so good, his body, their lips, the knowledge that it is Hamilton who is kissing him, Hamilton, who seemed always so difficult, impossible to reel in, even as Burr leaned on his charms that night in the tavern. He opens his mouth, his legs, welcomes, urges, begins to grind his body against Hamilton's, up and down, wanton and needy and desperate. Small, animal noises escaping him.