His left shoulder and arm burned; his thigh seemed to be on fire.

He could not remember a time when a woman had felt like this in his arms: incredibly innocent, burning with her first taste of passion.

His arm still burned from the casual brush of her hand as she said goodbye.

He ran down the stairs, realized his arm was burning.

His arms burned as he set the rifle beside the unconscious guard.

Those arms burn, and the water vaporizes away from them.

For over an hour she massaged the old man, until at last her own arms burned with fatigue.

His left arm burned, so much that he could barely move it.

His back ached and his arms burned like they were on fire.

How could she hate me, when my arm throbbed and burned with the wound I had given it for her love?