He was aching all over. He’d gone in headfirst, so used to women who followed him helplessly into the bedroom that he had no practice at stopping short of intimacy. She was pulling away. His slow brain finally realized that she was protesting the hold he had on her.

He lifted his head. He felt it spinning like a top. She was potent, this sweet, fragrant little virgin.

“I’m…sorry,” she whispered. “But…”

He let her ease away from his hips, but he didn’t let go. His pale eyes, darkened with passion, searched hers. The soft swell of her mouth, the quick little breaths that he could feel against his lips, the faint trembling of her body told him things she wouldn’t.

He shuddered faintly, helpless in his hunger as he fought for control.

She watched him, fascinated, embarrassed, a little shamed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, grimacing.

So she knew it hurt men when they couldn’t go past petting, he thought absently. Was she an innocent? “How do you know that?” he asked in a strained tone.

“Know what?” she asked.

“That it hurts a man to have to come to a sudden stop.”

She bit her lower lip and looked away.

He frowned. That didn’t look like any experienced woman he’d ever known. “Tell me,” he said quietly.

She pressed her small hands into the softness of his shirt, feeling thick hair and muscle under it. “Mama’s boyfriend. Henry. He tried to…” She bit back tears. “I was asleep. I had the door locked, but they all opened with one of those funny-looking long keys and he had one. I woke up with him on me. I pushed him away and he groaned and said it hurt him to stop and why wouldn’t I let him do what he wanted to? After all, my mother did…”

He wrapped her up in his arms and just held her, rocking her. “How old were you?”

She choked back a sob. “Fifteen.”

“That wasn’t the only time, was it?” he asked, his voice deep and cutting. Angry.

“No. But I learned to push heavy furniture against the door. That made him mad. It was just after that when he came after me with the belt and beat me bloody.”

“Dear God,” he whispered.

“I called the sheriff and they sent a deputy, but my mother said I hated Henry and made up stories about him. She wouldn’t let the deputy see me. I was covered with bruises all over my back.” She choked back another sob. “The only good thing,” she said in a miserable undertone, “was that Mama kept him away from me, after that. Well, after he got even for me calling the police. I was really bruised then. I missed two days of school.”

His big hand smoothed her long hair. “You poor kid,” he ground out, pressing his mouth to her forehead. “What a hell of a life you’ve had.”

“They say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” she said, her voice wobbly. “I guess it does.”