He works Burr's nipple hard, pressing it between his tongue and lips, until it has pebbled up hard -- it draws the loveliest noises out of Burr's throat, leaves him deeply affected and stained-red flushed, high on his cheekbones, a pattern of warm skin that Hamilton has never seen on him before.
He shifts his mouth to the other side, scraping his teeth over this one, but pinches hard at the first little furled nub, just to find out what Burr will do, what sounds he might make.
Ruin me. Oh, god. This actually makes Hamilton growl, possessive and heated.
The use he wants to put Burr to is not quite what Burr means, Hamilton imagines. He wants to possess Burr, yes -- but not in an impersonal way, not fucking him from behind and leaving him gaping and sore like he could be anyone. No, he wants to use Burr, specifically, and so he will make this as much about Burr himself as he can.
He pulls away to claim Burr's mouth again, and, dropping his coat off the last arm, lifts Burr away from the wall and sprawls him out on the bed. Peels away stockings and trousers and smallclothes, batting away Burr's hands when he tries to do the same with Hamilton's waistcoat. "How much of a slut do you want to be, Burr?" and his voice is dark and low. "Warmed up enough for me already? I don't think so. I don't think anyone's touched you since you got to New York."
If Burr were in heat, probably he would be wet enough. But he isn't. When Hamilton goes to his knees by the bed, he yanks Burr a little forward so that his hips are off the bed and he won't be able to get his balance. Slides a thumb along where Burr is starting to be the sort of soft and wet that Hamilton has dreamed about, and closes a hand around Burr's length, not masturbating him, just manhandling him a bit. Burr is so warm here at the entrance to his body, and Hamilton guides Burr's thigh over his shoulder and cants his hips up and follows the path of his thumb with his tongue, nosing at the crease of Burr's thigh (the way he smells, drenched with need) and pressing sloppy kisses to the source of the slick.
no subject
He shifts his mouth to the other side, scraping his teeth over this one, but pinches hard at the first little furled nub, just to find out what Burr will do, what sounds he might make.
Ruin me. Oh, god. This actually makes Hamilton growl, possessive and heated.
The use he wants to put Burr to is not quite what Burr means, Hamilton imagines. He wants to possess Burr, yes -- but not in an impersonal way, not fucking him from behind and leaving him gaping and sore like he could be anyone. No, he wants to use Burr, specifically, and so he will make this as much about Burr himself as he can.
He pulls away to claim Burr's mouth again, and, dropping his coat off the last arm, lifts Burr away from the wall and sprawls him out on the bed. Peels away stockings and trousers and smallclothes, batting away Burr's hands when he tries to do the same with Hamilton's waistcoat. "How much of a slut do you want to be, Burr?" and his voice is dark and low. "Warmed up enough for me already? I don't think so. I don't think anyone's touched you since you got to New York."
If Burr were in heat, probably he would be wet enough. But he isn't. When Hamilton goes to his knees by the bed, he yanks Burr a little forward so that his hips are off the bed and he won't be able to get his balance. Slides a thumb along where Burr is starting to be the sort of soft and wet that Hamilton has dreamed about, and closes a hand around Burr's length, not masturbating him, just manhandling him a bit. Burr is so warm here at the entrance to his body, and Hamilton guides Burr's thigh over his shoulder and cants his hips up and follows the path of his thumb with his tongue, nosing at the crease of Burr's thigh (the way he smells, drenched with need) and pressing sloppy kisses to the source of the slick.