“You are right,” she said, smiling, “it does smell like the Turquoise Gardens. You know, Lassui—sometimes—I miss Far Harad.”

“I often miss your tiny bodices, Eowyn nín,” said Legolas.

…

He laid her on their bed (naked, apart from her little black boots),—“Lie still, meleth nín,”—poured a drop of fragrant oil into his palm and, rubbing his hands together—and smiling—he slowly, gently, massaged her sweet breasts, and her smooth belly, and the delicate skin inside her slim thighs, stroking, caressing, gradually building pressure, until Eowyn—clutching the bedclothes—arched up, shuddering in release.

Then Legolas, his own needs suddenly urgent, freed himself from his leggings, and Eowyn stretched out her arms to him, and he sank down upon her, and entered her, with a contented sigh.