He was at the limit of his self-control, and he knew it. The pleasure of lying with her, having her in his arms, so soft and fragrant, was outstripped by the agony. He hadn’t made love to a woman since John’s death, which had been more than six weeks ago. His physical discomfort was more than real. He was at the point where he feared waking up with a wet dream and embarrassing them both. And last night she had slept soundly for the first time since he had rescued her from the Comanche. He felt he could leave her to sleep alone. He knew that if he could not forget Chavez, there was no way she could. The fact that she had those damn nightmares kept what had happened very alive for both of them. And it was the strongest reason for his self-control, which he had never even known he had. After all, he’d never gone celibate in his life until now. He’d never tested his capacity for self-denial. And, hopefully, he would never have to again. The next morning, before she was up, he went hunting to test the bow he had made.
