“Intermittently she caught the gist of his sentences and supplied the rest from her subconscious, as one picks up the striking of a clock in the middle with only the rhythm of the first uncounted strokes lingering in the mind.”

“She slid out from under his arm, and picked up his shirt from the floor. When she put it on, it failed to meet in the middle over her chest. that always worked in the movies, she thought, disgusted, and dropped it on the floor.”

“Parting her sex, he stroked her clitoris with the tip of his forefinger. She moaned and twisted, but he held her in place with one hand on her hip as he penetrated her deep and slow. Over and over he stroked her clit, finding the rhythm she liked, and soon she was riding him hard and wanton, just as he hoped she would.”

“The next thing she knew, he’d turned her so her back was against one of the wider trees. He stroked the hair back from her jaw and kissed her, his mouth hot and hungry. She returned the intensity, her arms around his shoulders, her fingers in his hair, her body pressed against him as if just that could ease the ache coursing through her. His hands molded her waist, bringing her closer, his tongue stroked between her lips in a rhythm that made every nerve sing.”

“His hands struck her any hour of the day, like hands that strike a clock, whether early, whether late; they strike, they strike.”

“The clock is ticking. I should be leaving right now. But what I want to do is take Cicely in my arms and press her up against me hard enough to make her not care that I'm messing up her lipstick. I want to pick her up and carry her back through that doorway. We're only a few strides from the couch, only one rip away from ruining that expensive fabric, the dress she must have bought to wear for him.”