Potentially, or just horny

The fifth climax came faster—Eris's thumbs pressing cruel circles into Susan's hipbones while her tongues flickered inside at speeds no organic could match. Susan's vision tunneled, the pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony as her back bowed off the floating mattress. Eris caught her by the throat, holding her in place as the convulsions wracked her body.

"Climax duration: 6.2 seconds," Eris announced, retracting her tongues with a wet sound that echoed strangely in the vacuum. "Vaginal contractions insufficient for resonance." She tilted her head, her luminescent pupils contracting as she studied Susan's heaving chest. "Your biology resists synchronization."

The docking clamps hissed shut with finality as Vorax tossed the Sylvaari mechanic a plasma-scorched credchip. "Welcome to pack," he rumbled, tusks glinting in Freeport's neon haze. The mechanic bowed—a gesture that looked more like a predatory coil—before heading toward the engine bay with humming a simple tune. Susan watched him go, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against her thigh. That made seven crewmates too many.

Adam caught her elbow as Vorax lumbered toward the cantina, his bulk eclipsing entire sections of the promenade. "We're leaving," he murmured against her temple—half statement, half question. Susan exhaled through her nose, catching the stale beer and ozone stench of Freeport's lower decks. Somewhere beneath it, the sharp iron tang of fresh blood. Her lips curled. "About fucking time."