He sat rigid, meeting her eyes.
“Amanda,” he said at last, “you would be astonished if I kicked you away from me and trampled over you to the door. That is what I want to do.”
“Do it,” she said, and the grip of her hands tightened. “Cheetah, dear! I would love you to kill me.”
“I don't want to kill you.”
Her eyes dilated. “Beat me.”
“And I haven't the remotest intention of making love to you,” he said, and pushed her soft face and hands away from him as if he would stand up.
She caught hold of him again. “Stay with me,” she said.
He made no effort to shake off her grip. He looked at the dark cloud of her hair that had ruled him so magically, and the memory of old delights made him grip a great handful almost inadvertently as he spoke. “Dear Leopard,” he said, “we humans are the most streaky of conceivable things. I thought I hated you. I do. I hate you like poison. And also I do not hate you at all.”
Then abruptly he was standing over her.
She rose to her knees.