This is from a story I'm polishing up now getting ready to submit. It's called Crazy Ever After.
“Okay, don’t think about it.” He clenched his jaw, his entire body tight with restraint. “Don’t ever think that someone else might know something you don’t. Don’t think about anyone’s feelings but your own. I know you were spoiled rotten. Hell, teenagers are supposed to be self-centered. But by your age you’d think you’d have a bit more empathy, that you’d know that life isn’t all black and white.”
“Spoiled rotten?” She stood up too, stalked over to him and jabbed him in the chest. “I have never been spoiled rotten! And I am sick of you lecturing me!” He was horrified to see her lower lip quivering. “I’m not self-centered. I do have empathy!” She hit him again, this time a punch to his shoulder that instinctively made him grab her hand and hold it away from him. He grabbed her other one for good measure, in case she decided to swing at him with her left. Her words pierced his heart with a sharp stab.
She tried to wrestle away from him and he tugged her closer. Ah sweet Jesus. She felt so unbelievably good in his arms, soft breasts flattened against him, the scent of warm vanilla and woman filling his nostrils. Her long hair trailed over his arms, tickling him. He felt his body harden and resisted the urge to push his hips against her.
She struggled more, then she kicked him – kicked him! – in the shin. Luckily her small foot in the flimsy flip flop didn’t even hurt; in fact it probably hurt her more.
“I know self defense,” she muttered, wriggling against him and making him go even harder. “I’ll knee you in the nuts, so help me God. Let me go!”
He wanted to laugh. Some threat. He probably had seventy pounds on her. He thrust a knee between her thighs to prevent her from damaging his junk, and then she went still, making a funny little noise somewhere between a sob and a moan. He was suddenly aware of the moist heat he felt against his thigh, only the thin cotton of her dress and his jeans separating his flesh from the hot softness between her legs.
She moved against him, a small tilt of her pelvis that told him she was aroused, too. Oh Christ. He’d resisted her the last time he’d held her like this; where the strength had come from that time, he had no goddamn clue, because now he was hot and hard and the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this had disappeared like the sun below the horizon.
“Samara,” he groaned. “Oh Christ, Samara.”
“No,” she cried brokenly, and she let herself go, falling against him, pressing her face into his neck. He felt the wet tears, released her hands to encircle her shuddering body with his arms. She was small boned, and he held her protectively, gently as she sobbed against him. “I don’t want this. I don’t want this!”