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Eowyn looked up from her book.
“Mel—”
“Legolas!” The elf’s cheery greeting was
cut short when his wife leapt from the warmth of their bed and
caught him by the arms.
“What…?”
He watched with fascination as she struggled to remove his jerkin,
her fingers slipping on the wet metal clasps, her hands wrestling
with the damp suede that refused to slide off his shoulders.
“Mel—”
“Help me.”
Legolas shrugged off his jerkin and favoured her with one of his
most dazzling smiles.
Eowyn started on his tunic.
“This is very enjoyable,” he said, “but—”
“Take it off.” She disappeared into the bathing room.
Legolas removed his tunic, and then—for good measure—took
off his undershirt as well.
Eowyn reappeared carrying two large towels. “Now…”
she said, wrapping one towel around his shoulders before starting
to unlace his leggings—cursing quietly to herself as she
snagged the damp cords.
“Melmenya, what—OW!”
“Sorry.”
“You can kiss it better.” Legolas shot her another
seductive smile.
Eowyn took no notice, instead concentrating on pulling his leggings
past his hips and down his thighs. “Sit,” she
said, guiding him to the bed and quickly spreading out the second
towel.
She knelt before him.
Legolas’ smile broadened—and he unconsciously tilted
his hips and pushed them forwards.
But Eowyn ignored the invitation. “Lift your foot.”
“My foot?”
“Lift it.” She pulled off one boot, then tried to drag
his wet leggings down over his knee. “Oh,” she cried
in frustration, “lift the other foot.”
“Let me, melmenya.” Legolas kicked off his second
boot and deftly removed his leggings. “There. What next?”
But Eowyn had already seized the corners of the towel, and was
vigorously rubbing his damp thighs. “Oh… Oh yes…”
He smiled again, arching his back as the sensation travelled deep
into his groin and—
Eowyn moved down to his shins.
“Melmenya?”
His wife came up on her knees. “Your hair is dripping.”
She pulled the second towel from his shoulders and carefully wrapped
it around his flowing locks, squeezing it to soak up the moisture.
“Get into bed.”
“I thought you would never ask.” Legolas slipped beneath
the coverlet.
Eowyn quickly untied her sash and shrugged off her dressing robe.
“You could have let me do that, melmenya.”
But Eowyn had already climbed in beside him, and she wrapped
her arms around him, and pulled him against her body. “Gods,”
she muttered, rubbing his back with her hands. She worked her
way down both sides of his spine, concentrating for a moment on
the small of his back, then moved on, past his tailbone, to his
buttocks, rubbing, rubbing—
And Legolas came, disgracefully, against her belly.
“Legolas!” Eowyn shook her head. “Still, I suppose
it is a good sign.”
The elf, his eyes closed, his face buried in her hair, took a
deep, calming breath. “Sign of what, melmenya?” he sighed.
“Sign that we have caught it in time—that you will not
take a chill.”
“A chill. I see…”
His heart brimming with tenderness now that he understood her
actions, Legolas raised himself up, gently turned his wife onto
her back and, smiling down at her, leaned in, and kissed her tenderly.
“You must be more careful,” Eowyn murmured, “now
that the weather has changed, my love.”
Legolas hid his grin. This was not the time to tell his
human wife that elves did not suffer from chills.
On the contrary…
The elf felt sure that the oncoming rainy season would prove
much more enjoyable if he kept that piece of information
to himself.
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