Not that type of plan

Susan kissed Adam her teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. He groaned into her mouth, hands already working at her belt buckle with the single-minded focus of a man who’d decided survival was tomorrow’s problem. The needler pistol tumbled to the floor as she kicked off her pants, the fabric stiff with dried alien blood and whatever the hell that Voraxian had ejaculated on her thigh.

Adam’s back hit the bunk with a squeal of protesting metal, Susan straddling him with her knees bracketing his hips. Her fingers wrapped around his throat—not enough to choke, just enough to make his pulse hammer against her palm. "Still got that knife?" she breathed, her other hand sliding down his chest. Adam’s grin was all teeth as he flipped a blade from his sleeve into her waiting grip. The edge kissed her inner thigh, parting fabric and drawing a thin red line she’d feel tomorrow. Susan hissed through her teeth and sank down onto him in one brutal motion.

The knife clattered to the floor as her nails carved crescent moons into his shoulders. Adam’s hips jerked upward, driving himself deeper as she rode him with the same reckless abandon she’d used on the Voraxian—all teeth and sweat and no regard for the bruises blooming across both their bodies. The bunk shrieked in protest, its bolts loosening with every thrust.

When Susan came, it was with Adam’s fingers twisting in her hair and her back arched like a drawn bowstring. She bit down on his collarbone to muffle the sound, tasting copper and gun oil. Adam followed seconds later, his grip on her hips hard enough to leave fingerprints.