Her hips rose off the blanket in reaction, and her hands dug into his shoulders. He welcomed the pain. It was a small distraction from the other pain trying to control his body, warring with the desire and determination he felt.
He slid the sundress down over her narrow hips and flung it away, leaving her warm and naked beside him. She trembled, suddenly aware of her own vulnerability, and he covered her with his own clothed body, ignoring the pain that seared through him. He wanted her, wanted her so badly that he didn't care if it killed him. He pressed his hardness against her, felt her lift her hips in response, and he cursed, slowly, fluidly, savagely beneath his breath.
She put her hands to his face. They were hot, trembling, and her eyes were slightly glazed with desire. The way he'd wanted to see her. "Michael, what's wrong?" she whispered against his mouth, and he could feel the hard peaks of her breasts against his bare chest, feel the soft yielding of her thighs. He rocked against her, slowly, tantalizingly, and she responded, arching up against him, even as he cursed himself.
He couldn't do it to her. Oh, he could perform, all right. His body was raging out of control, and it would take more than a life-threatening injury to keep him from having her. It would take something far more devastating. His own long-absent sense of honor.
He covered her hands with his, pressing them against his face, and he pressed down on her body, trying to still the restless trembling in her long limbs. "Michael," she said again, her voice a strangled cry, and he saw suddenly that he'd pushed her too far. The body beneath his was on fire, raging with a need as great as his. Her eyes were wide and shocked, her mouth pale, and he knew she was aroused to the point of pain, with little knowledge of how to deal with that arousal, how to slow it down, turn it down.
He rolled off her, taking her with him, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her, long, slow, calming strokes, down her arms, her body. But it didn't do any good. She whimpered, a pained little sound in the back of her throat, and each calming stroke of his hand only made her skin jump beneath his touch.
"Calm down," he whispered against her hair. "I shouldn't have done this. You don't need this right now, and not from me. Just take deep breaths, relax…"
She caught his wrists, pulling them away from her, and her expression was dark and hunted. "What do you mean?" Her voice was soft and raw. "I need this. I need you."
He couldn't stand to hear it, not and keep his last ounce of decency. Tell her, his better self ordered. Tell her, so she'll know she could do so much better. But he couldn't. "You're frightened, confused, looking for comfort," he said instead. "That's not a good enough reason."
"Damn you," she said, yanking away. Except that he wouldn't let her go. He was much, much stronger than she was, and his hand was a manacle around her wrist, jerking her back against him.
She fought for a minute, but he stilled her with no effort at all, simply by wrapping himself around her again. He couldn't let her storm off into the night. Damn it, he couldn't let her go at all.
She smelled of heat and flowers and aroused female flesh, and he knew what he was going to do. For her, not for him.
Pushing her back against the blankets, he silenced her mouth with his. Her hips jerked as he moved his hand down her smooth-skinned stomach, sliding between her thighs, and she tried to clamp them closed against him. But she had to fight both his strength and her own need, and it was a battle she was destined to lose. She was wet and soft and sleek, arching up against him, and she was his.
The hands that had been pushing him away now clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the loose cotton shirt that billowed around them. She tore her mouth away, burying her face against the side of his neck, and he could feel the wetness of her tears, the heat from her strangled breathing. He talked to her then, a jumble of words, telling her how brave, how beautiful, how sweet, she was, telling her all the things he wanted to do to her when they had the time and place. She was fighting it, fighting her own body, even as she reached for it.
He knew women's bodies, better than she did. She was no match for his knowledge, his experience, his determination. He knew how to balance her on the edge of desire, stringing it out for a breathless eternity, and he knew how to plunge her over, prolonging it until she was sobbing against him, beating against him, as her body convulsed, his hand clamped between her thighs.
He gave her time to calm down. He brushed her hair away from her tear-damp face, whispering to her, words of praise, of love, of sex. He could tell her he loved her. He was Michael Dowd, a math master at Willingborough. He was the kind of person who could love, who could give.