Boone kissed her breathless. He broke the kiss and leaned away, his heart pounding in his throat. He reached out for her again, meaning to take her wrist and guide her hand to his chest, but his fingers closed around empty air. Confused, he sat up. Six had scrambled backwards, away from him. She'd swung her pack around and put it between them, a makeshift wall.

"Six?" he said, confused, moving to follow her.

In a flash, she'd pulled her knife clear of its sheath. "Back off," she hissed.

He froze, and his hard-on turned into a fist. He said her name again, low and plaintive, a question.

"I fuck a couple caravaners so you think I'll roll over for you like a bitch in heat?" she snarled, teeth bared. "Fuck off, I ain't your whore."

"That's not what I meant at all," he said, dumbfounded, his arousal cooling. "I thought you were--"

"Easy?"

"No! Shit Six, I thought you wanted me."

"So you just grab my tits, hope I'm amenable."

"I'm sorry," he said, deeply miserable. "I should've said something--"

"Should've asked, more like," she said tartly, sliding the knife back into the sheath. "You can't just assume shit. I ain't flattered and you ain't my type. S'what I was going to say before you stuck your tongue down my throat."

His ears burned, a heat entirely unrelated to his earlier lust. "Sorry," he repeated.

"I'm going to sleep over here," she said. "You stay on your side. And you keep your pinche hands to yourself or I'll cut them off myself, I swear to God."

"Yes'm," he muttered.

Satisfied, Six bedded down on the far side of the room, turning her pack over to use as a pillow. Her breathing turned slow and easy; she was asleep in minutes. Boone lay awake much longer, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling and ignoring his swollen, aching dick.

Serves you right, he thought irritably, rolling over and punching his pillow.