His cheeks burnt as a paralysing jolt of sensation shot up his leg and into his crotch, where his cock tingled beneath his rain-soaked breeches, swelling as he remembered her touch. He’d stopped her, then.
He knew now that he’d lost that ability when he’d lost her—to see her would be to hold her, and to hold her would be to make love to her, passionately and at once. Still, he wasn’t sure he regretted his decision not to take her that day in the field, when she’d asked him to. To have done so—to have felt every inch of her soft skin, to have lost himself in her body, then to have lost her the very same day—he strongly suspected that might have killed him. Not that it stopped him from feeling as if he’d let her slip right through his fingers, gone now—wherever she was—to a place where he couldn’t touch her, a place he just couldn’t find, despite the fact that he was trying his damnedest!
A note for those who enjoyed last week's six: this six occurs very shortly afterward, during the same scene.