Page 56 of Claimed By the War Brute
I breathe deep, shoulders square. “Not just standing,” I murmur, voice rich with challenge. “Leading.”
Garrus steps in—silent but thunderous, all heat and weight and presence. He fills the space between us like he was born to. I feel the solid press of his chest, warm and armored with fine red scales, like living metal warmed by a sun. His voice rumbles low. “You’re too easy to follow.”
I laugh softly, my fingers tracing the sharp edge of his jaw. His skin is strange and beautiful—smooth in places, textured in others, ridged at his temple where I rest my thumb. “Good,” I whisper, “keep up.”
He kisses me.
There’s no tease in it. No battle. It’s deep, slow, devastating. He kisses me like I’m something holy, like the center of his universe. My breath catches. Heat coils low in my belly. His mouth is firm, lips slightly rough, tongue hot and slow against mine.
The forge tools sit idle nearby, humming faintly. Lights have dimmed to their emergency glow, casting shadows across thebay in deep red and faint starlight. I guide him gently, fingers curling around his clawed hand, leading him toward the bench at the far wall. It’s been covered in a thermal blanket—soft, warm, waiting.
I don’t say a word. I let him watch.
Piece by piece, I undress. Shirt first, then pants, slowly, never taking my eyes off him. The chill of the ship meets my skin, but my blood runs fire. Garrus watches me with reverence, not hunger—though that’s there too, simmering under control. His pupils widen. His breathing thickens. When I’m bare, I stand tall, letting him see the full curve and strength of me.
His hands reach for his own armor, and I step in, stopping him. “Let me.”
I undo the fastenings of his chest plate, slide it free, revealing the wide ripple of his chest—solid with power, ridged and scaled, each scar and muscle catch glinting red under the forge light. My hands roam him slowly, learning. His shoulders are massive, tapering into arms corded with strength. Elbows ridged. Knees ridged. Alien. Stunning.
I press my mouth to the ridge along his collarbone. He exhales like it punches him. “You don’t have to worship me,” he rasps.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want to.”
We lie back together on the bench, heat pressing from all sides. He lets me lead at first—my legs wrapping around his waist, my mouth dragging over the sharp line of his jaw, the corner of his lips, the point of one exposed fang.
I guide his hand between my thighs. He growls when he finds how wet I am, his fingers parting me gently.
“Fuck, Syd,” he breathes. “You’re soaked.”
I grin into his mouth. “Then don’t tease me.”
He doesn’t.
His fingers are large, blunt, careful—one circling my clit with maddening precision while another slides lower. I moan when he sinks it inside, thick and cool and textured from his scaled skin. He watches me. Watches how I gasp. Watches how my pussy clenches around his finger.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “So fucking soft.”
I rock into his hand, panting. “I need your cock, Garrus. Please.”
His eyes flare.
When he finally frees himself, it’s like unveiling a weapon. His cock is thick, ridged like the rest of him, longer than human and angled upward, twitching in need. There’s a faint glow along the ridges—like embers under skin.
I reach out, hand wrapping around him. He hisses, hips jerking. “That’s sensitive.”
I stroke him slowly, marveling at the heat, the texture, the wet sheen at his tip. “Good,” I whisper. “You feel incredible.”
He growls low in his throat, pushes me gently back onto the blanket, and kneels between my thighs.
“I’ll go slow,” he says. “I need to feel all of you.”
I nod, breathless.
He presses the head of his cock to my entrance. The stretch is immediate, breathtaking. I groan, head falling back, legs splayed wider. Garrus watches every inch as he sinks into me, his jaw clenched, his claws digging into the blanket.
“You’re—fuck,” he snarls. “You’re taking me so good.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down. “I want all of it.”
