"Don't touch me," her voice shuddered out as the wind was knocked out of her by his hands. His long-fingered, quasi-elegant hands. His mouth puckered near her ear.
"Now, don't do this to me," he said, and his voice growled and rumbled. It was as if she was holding up a seashell to hear the ocean, but, in this case, her ear was the shell and his voice was the water. It was going to drown her, she was sure of it. "Don't do this to me, Lisa."
A knife. As he pulled it out, it cut through the air, directing a hissing noise to her. Her terror grew.
"You've escaped once before," he murmured almost lovingly, "but this time I won't let you run away." If her life was a B-horror movie, the dialogue would be cheesy and almost laughable. But this was life, and she was scared.