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“My what?”
“Mmm?”
“You were admiring my body and my what?”
She chuckled. “You know.”
Nuzzling her cheek, Legolas moved his hips in a long, lazy thrust.
“Yes,” said Eowyn, softly, “oh, that… Oh
gods, yes, that!” Shivering, she rode out the wave of
pleasure he had sent flooding through her.
The elf waited for her spasm to subside, then withdrew slowly,
and thrust again.
Eowyn clutched at the ground—her body arching of its own
accord—until the pleasure had once more ebbed away. Then
she muttered, “Why me, Legolas? You could have had
any of those—those beautiful ellith—Arwen,
even. Why me—?”
“Shhhhh.” He thrust, deep this time and, holding
himself inside her, roughly ground his hips.
“I—oh—I am—oh—I am nothing…!”
“You are my Harvest Queen.” Closing his eyes in a frown
of concentration, he made a series of long, slow, thorough thrusts.
“You are the bravest—the strongest—the most beautiful
woman—or elleth—I have ever known. I love you, melmenya—”
His strokes hardened, and his rhythm quickened.
“But—the potions,” she gasped stubbornly, even
as she met his movements, “how can we know—”
“Sh… Ssssssh!” He suddenly hunched over
her, his soothing murmur ending in a ragged hiss, and she felt
him spill his seed inside her, again and again. Then he sank down
upon her and whispered, against her cheek, “I have loved
you from the moment I first saw you, Eowyn nín. Everything
I have done—this colony—I have built—to share with
you. Everything I ever wanted has been given to me tonight.”
He withdrew and, rolling onto his back, sighed contentedly.
“How could I be so lucky?” asked Eowyn.
There was a long moment’s silence, then Legolas answered,
with a soft chuckle,“As to have a lover who thoroughly spends
himself, leaving you unsatisfied?”
As to have won your love, she thought. But all
she said was: “I am not worried. The night is nowhere near
over yet, my Harvest King.”
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