"She didn't talk to Bond or seem to be aware of him, and this allowed him to continue his inspection without inhibition. She had a gay, to-hell-with-you face that, Bond thought, would become animal in passion. In bed she would fight and bite and then suddently melt into hot surrender. He could almost see the proud, sensual mouth bare away from the even, white teeth in a snarl of desire and then, afterwards, soften into a half-pout of loving slavery."
From Thunderball, by Ian Fleming. I had such fun reading it this June, but not half as much fun as I bet Fleming had writing it.