From what I've read, there seems to be a consensus among Mass Effect fanfic authors that turians tend to run warmer than humans. Having just started ME3, I don't know if that's established in the game or not. Turians seem reptilian to me, so I thought it would make more sense for their body temperatures to be cooler than humans'. If that's not canon, well, it messes with my metaphors.
Heat
or
Before the Storm
She burned against him.
Upon finally taking Morgan Shepard into his arms, Garrus had been momentarily startled by how warm she was. A turian running that hot would be seizing from fever. But then, a turian wouldn't have melted into him the way she had, wouldn't have the same exotic dark hair or the same smooth curves. A turian wouldn't have taken their encounter quite so deliciously slowly.
Oh, it had been an evening to remember. Slowly, slowly, they had explored every inch of each other's alien bodies, learning, laughing, gasping, teasing. Becoming more and more adventurous. And when they'd come together at last—gently, carefully—he'd seen fireworks behind his eyes. The memory of it made him shiver even as he grew dizzy from her heat.
Now she slept, the entire length of her body pressed to his, and Garrus basked in her warmth. It felt as though something inside him, so long frozen he'd become numb to the cold, was beginning to melt. He delicately drew one talon up her spine and then stroked her hair, causing her to purr softly and snuggle closer.
Spirits, she was beautiful. Relaxed in sleep, her face was peaceful, more so than it ever was when she was awake. And her hair! He couldn't get over her hair—dark, lustrous, and even softer than it looked.
He had to smile. There was nothing soft about Commander Shepard, former Spectre, hero of the Battle of the Citadel. There was no standing against her on the battlefield, and she never failed those who stood with her. Her bad side was a dangerous place to be. She stood by her principles and her decisions, and damn the consequences. Frankly, she kicked ass. There was a fire in her, a blaze like a thousand suns.
But Morgan Shepard, the woman, his lover, was something altogether different. She was gentle, yielding, even hesitant at times. But when she gave herself over to him, it was completely and without reservation. That kind of absolute trust was… humbling, to say the least. Especially coming from her. There was fire there, too, but it smoldered.
All of a sudden, Garrus bitterly regretted waiting until now for this. In a matter of hours, the Normandy would brave the Omega-4 relay, perhaps never to return. They were flinging themselves into the inferno on a suicide mission to save the galaxy—why in the names of all the spirits had he put this off?
A chilling thought struck him, and he froze. What if she doesn't survive… and I do?
A terrifying image flashed before his eyes: her lifeless body dangling from his arms as he carried her back to the Normandy. He'd seen enough war to visualize every gory detail: armor cracked and scorched, red human blood dripping from a horrific wound, the smell of burnt flesh. The blank stare of the dead. An icy fist clenched around his heart and threatened to stop it beating.
Garrus didn't realize he was shaking until he felt a warm hand on his face. "Hey," Shepard murmured sleepily. "You okay?"
No. No, he was definitely not okay. There were plenty of things he was prepared to lose on this mission, up to and including his own life, but Morgan Shepard was not by any means one of them. "Shepard… Morgan," he corrected himself at the raised eyebrow he could feel more than see, "I, uh… this was a bad idea."
He felt her stiffen, and she pulled away. After a moment's silence, her voice came small and cold. "Well, then, maybe you're right. EDI, lights," she snapped as she sat up.
The sudden change from soft darkness to bright light momentarily blinded him, and her reaction left him reeling. When his vision cleared, her back was turned as she shrugged into a bathrobe. Spirits, Vakarian, what the hell did you say that for? Are you trying to ruin everything? "Morgan, I… that's not—"
She scooped his clothes up off the floor and flung them in his face. "Get out."
The words, and the ice in her voice, hit Garrus like a blow to the gut. And just as if he'd been hit, his shock transmuted to anger. He lunged from the bed and grabbed her arm, spinning her roughly around to face him again. His biting words died unspoken, though, when she met his gaze.
Her eyes were red and puffy, her face streaked by tears that she swiped at defiantly with her free hand. "I said, go, Garrus."
"Not until you let me explain!" He took her by the shoulders, more gently this time. "What I was trying to say—what I failed so miserably at saying—is that I wish we had done this sooner." He released her and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "This was supposed to be us just blowing off steam, so we wouldn't be distracted on the mission. But it's more than that. Or, it was, before I… put my hand in it? Is that the phrase humans use?"
To Garrus's immense relief, Shepard smiled. "Foot. You put your foot in it, Garrus." She gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "And I overreacted, big time."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." She reached up and stroked the right side of his face, and he could feel the warmth of her fingers even through the desensitized scar tissue. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch as she continued, "And you're right. It's definitely something more. I care about you, Garrus. More than I ever intended to. More than I ever thought I could."
He wanted to respond in kind. Spirits help him, he felt the same way about her, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he placed his hand over hers and quipped, "It's the scars. They're just irresistible. And then, of course, there's the rest of this," he said, cheekily, gesturing to his still-naked body. "Speaking of which…"
She was way ahead of him, having already untied the sash that cinched the soft black robe around her waist. Garrus slid it off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet, then drew her close, feeling her warmth flood through him once more. "That's better," he murmured, subvocals betraying just how good it felt simply to hold her.
They smoldered together for the rest of the night, knowing full well they might burn together in the morning.