She made no reply. Her eyes, as glassy as those of a sleep-walker, stared into his.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes," she said.
He pressed his mouth to hers. The fierceness of the kiss bruised her lips, the pull of his hand in her hair was a searing pain, the pressure of his arm about her body was a suffocation. Yet—somehow—there was again the dawning of that unholy pleasure—the same degraded delight that had risen in her on that other occasion, in the room of the red-checked table cloth. Through some hellish alchemy, the leaden pain was transmuting itself into the garish gold of a horrible, abnormal pleasure. She found her crushed lips attempting a feeble, painful response.
At her movement, she felt herself swung abruptly from her feet. With his lips still crushing hers, he raised her in his arms; she felt herself borne across the room. He paused; there was a sudden release, and she crashed to the hard surface of the couch, whose rough covering scratched the bare flesh of her back. Nicholas Devine bent over her; she saw his hand stretch toward her single remaining garment. And again, from somewhere in her harassed soul, a spark of resistance flashed.
"Nick!" she moaned. "Oh, Nick! Help me!"
"Call him!" said the other, a sneer on his face. "Call him! He hears; it adds to his torment!"
She covered her eyes with her hands. She felt his hand slip coldly between her skin and the elastic about her waist.
"Nick!" she moaned again. "Nick! Oh, my God! Nick!"