He grabbed her slim shoulders and pulled her closer to him, their clothes the only physical barrier between them, but honor and tradition were older and stronger barriers, and so he kept his hands planted firmly on her slim shoulders. He would rather them encircle her waist, holding on to her like the lifeline that she had become. He would rather kiss her fiercely, passionately, showing, burning her with all the love and lust that raged inside him hotter than any of the fire techniques passed down from generation to generation within his family. But honor, and tradition, and his will power kept that at bay, and so the bruises left on her shoulders would be the only reminder of his love.
Her small hands grasped handfuls of cloth as she held them against his chest. She wished she could tear through the clothing, through the skin to the heart below which she already knew was hers, but promises made to family and country caused any secret promise she made to him seem weaker in comparison. She wanted to hold onto him, drag him back into sunlight from the wind and rain and storms that she constantly found him lost in. She wanted him to feel, to understand, how gentle these fists could be. But she held her fist still against him, because the steel promises made to family and country were not so easily broken, and so the wrinkles left in his shirt would be the only reminder of her love.
"This is wrong." She whispered, staring, eyes unfocused, to the horizon, searching desperately for their future.
"We will find a way to make it right." Forehead to temple, mouth leaking hot breath and cold truth into her ear.
AN: Story is mine but not the characters. You know the drill.