The Chronicles of Riddick, Kyra/Riddick: animals in the dark, "Just shut up."
She nearly cut her tongue open when he kissed her, the little black blade tongued up out of shocked reflex--men down here were rarely stupid enough, after the first few weeks, to try to get their mouths on hers but she still honed the instinct--and he caught her jaw in one big and too-strong hand, fingers pressing in, and caught the blade between his teeth. He spat it out and she gasped and cursed him, shaky, "that's mine, you bastard--" and he laughed, a low rumble in his chest, and kissed her again.
Riddick was at home here. She might have expected it; in Crematoria's bestial blackness, Riddick fit right in instantly. Kyra had her own identity here--as much a part of this prison, she thought sometimes, as the charcoal claw-scarred bars--but she'd worked it out of the stone and blood of others. Unfair, she thought between her teeth, sank her nails into his skin as he worked off her pants one handed, the other at the back, tracing almost casually over the pale lines of scars and taut curve of muscle.
Big, callused fingers. She braced one foot against the stone wall and a sound, low and aching and vulnerable, tore from her throat as he worked inside, pressed at her flesh with too-deft fingers. She thought about breaking his neck, about cutting his throat instead of his cheek, and bit down on her lip until it bled.
Cursed him again, raggedly and straying from English, and he gave another of those low, vibrating laughs and rubbed his cheek against her breasts like a big cat. It made her whimper low in her throat and he bit her, sharp and painful, made her jerk, hips jolting into his hand. She dragged clawed fingers over his skin, twisted aggressively against him to kiss him, blood skating over both their tongues. Her hands closed over his elbow and moved him in her own rhythm, and he surged against her, fingers sliding away and cock sliding in, thick and almost a burn.
Kyra released him and groped blindly for support, crying out, her fingers scraping over stone as she tried to move, tried not to, impaled brief and almost painful. The dark pressed in on them in their corner of rock and heat, lamps shattered. A familiar buzz sounded and she thought hazily about the chains wrapped through their half-crippled cell door, hoped they'd hold while predators stalked the paths and she was pinned under another.
She shoved at his shoulders, rocked him back on his heels so she rose above him. Not surrendering any ground--not ever--he wasn't winning this one, and she shuddered and bit back another cry as she rocked her hips against him in demand.
"Another game, Kyra....?" He murmured against her throat, voice rasping even deeper in his chest than usual, and she managed to pant, "just shut up."
He bit her for that, teeth sinking in, and his hips jolted under savagely into hers. When she came, her scream blended in with the hunting cries of the armored beasts.