Gentle fingers touched her shoulder.

Eowyn—caught somewhere between sleeping and waking—instinctively pulled away; but the hand, sliding down to her waist, drew her close and held her.

“Legolas?”

Soft lips brushed her ear. “Shhhhh.”

They had made love already—a tender reconciliation—but her elf, it seemed, needed more than that; and as his warm breath teased her neck, sending shivers through her limbs, she felt him press his erection—long and hard—between her thighs.

“No,” she whispered, though its firm caress was unbearably sweet, “I want to see you.”

He pulled away, letting her turn onto her back; then, carefully nudging her legs apart, he knelt between her knees.

Oh, how beautiful he was!

By the light of the stars, filtering through the canvas of her little hut, Eowyn watched him unlace the waistband of his close-fitting leggings and slide them off.

She reached out eagerly. But Legolas seized her ankles and placed her feet on his bare hips and, running his hands firmly down her thighs, moved in closer. “Guide me,” he whispered.

So she curled her fingers around him, and drew him down to her core, shifting her hips until—

“Ohhh.” Legolas sank himself inside her and began to thrust, slowly. “Oh. Valar.”

“Yes…”

He arched his back and pushed himself deeper.

“Oh, yes…”

And his strokes grew shorter, but faster, and more urgent.

And Eowyn, clawing the ground beside her, could not tear her eyes from him—from his face, frowning with determination; from his muscles, taut with fucking her; from the beads of sweat running down his throat and chest; from the glimpses of his thick shaft, entirely possessing her body.

And, suddenly, he caught her by the ankles and lifted her legs high, and his penis found some animal part of her and set it free, and she thrashed beneath him, jamming her hand into her mouth to stifle her own scream.

And her elf hunched over her—his long, pale hair brushing her breasts—and he groaned, and groaned again, and his hot, wet seed poured into her belly.