"Kiss me," he repeated, far down in his eyes the vicious gleam of that boundlessly ferocious cruelty which is mothered not by rage but by pleasure.
She kissed him on the cheek.
"On the lips," he commanded.
Their lips met, and it was to her as if a hot flame, terrible yet thrilling, swept round and embraced her whole body.
"Do you love me?" he asked tenderly.
She was silent.
"You love me?" he asked commandingly.
"You can call it that if you like."
"I knew you would. I understand women. The way to make a woman love is to make her afraid."
She gazed at him. "I am not afraid," she said.