If you do not expect the unexpected you will not find it,

for it is not to be reached by search or trail.

(Heraclitus, BC 544 - BC 483)

The sun was rising when Lothíriel stirred again, having enjoyed a rather short but restful slumber. She rolled onto her back and stretched, lazy, relaxed and content. She could feel the satisfaction in every bit of her body. It sang in her veins and created a pleasant warmth in her belly.

But something about the bed felt wrong. After a few moments of pondering what it might be, it finally occurred to her that she was alone in it. She raised her lashes: she was still dozy as she eyed the rumpled sheets and pillows spread across the wide four-poster. They looked deserted and cold. It was unsettling to realize how quickly the feel of Éomer’s weight beside her had become familiar, the warmth of his body necessary for her comfort.

It was certainly not cold in the chamber. The fire must have been stirred anew not long ago. The flames were dancing high inside the hearth, feeding from the piled wooden logs.

Lothíriel stared across the room. One thing was becoming more and more certain: there was only a very little chance that Éomer would ever cease to surprise her. He had made love to her right there in front of the hearth. On a rug! Sweet Elbereth! She could not believe it. - Well, actually, she could believe it when taking into consideration that her bottom appeared to be slightly abraded. But this discomfort was only a minor disadvantage bearing in mind how he had made her feel. She still couldn’t think about the proper diction for that kind of feeling, that indescribable mergence of physical pleasure and boundless joy. It was so new, so overwhelming, and so unexpected. No wonder they did not want girls and unwed young women to become acquainted with what was awaiting them. Quite a few might get too curious.

However, she entertained the suspicion that the wondrous passion she had experienced in Éomer’s arms had a lot to do with the man and was not necessarily the rule. Although Lothíriel knew that her experience was extremely limited - or rather non-existent - her instinct told her that Éomer was a very generous lover, one who would always consider her needs and wants; even before his own.

Suddenly a rather silly thought caused a giggle to burst from her throat and she rolled over onto her belly, pressing her face into the pillow. She wondered if her father had included the attribute ‘good lover’ when he established the criteria for a suitable husband for his only daughter.

Well, perhaps not.

But then: never underestimate Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

That finally made her lose it. She started laughing and her giddy and bubbly laughter was interspersed by squeals and titters. Somebody overhearing her would have thought she had gone mad, but she couldn’t stop herself. She did not even know why. Imagining the dignified Lord of Dol Amroth inquiring after the bedchamber qualities of prospective claimants to the hand of his daughter was not really that humorous. No! Not true! It actually was hilarious! She laughed even harder. Blindly she grabbed for a pillow and pulled it over her head. Perhaps she would be able to control herself if she cut off her air supply.

Buried under the down-filled cushion, shaken by this absurd mirth, she hardly noticed the mattress sink down beside her. The pillow was pulled from her head and when she flipped over onto her back she found Éomer sitting on the edge of the bed. He was wearing the dark red robe from the evening before and looked down on her with puzzled amusement.

“Lothíriel, what are you doing?”

“I am being silly.”

That did not answer his question but she could hardly ask him if her father had interrogated him about his . . . Another fit of laughter seized her and Éomer let himself become infected, watching her with a rather bewildered chuckle.

“I have seen you laughing, really laughing, only once,” he recalled.

“I am so very happy.”

For an elusive moment Éomer looked as if he were going to breathe a sigh of relief. With his forefinger he brushed some tangled strands of hair back from her face as he gazed intently down into her eyes, which were gleaming with happiness.

“If you are,” he said, his voice not more than a whisper, “then so am I.”

Lothíriel lifted her hand to play, on her part, with his hair. He must have brushed it. The last time she had looked at him it had been as tousled as hers certainly was. With her other hand she felt for the plait Éomer had braided the night before. It had come loose. Her hair must be in wild disarray.

“I probably look a mess.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his voice full of warmth and tenderness. “But you are my mess now.”

“Your mess? Did you not listen to what Mithrandir had to say? A woman is no property to anyone.”

He leant over her, his breathtaking grin on his face. “Do not believe everything an old wizard tells you.” He brushed his lips fleetingly against hers before he straightened up again.

Lothíriel frowned discontentedly. “That was chaste.”

Now it was Éomer’s turn to laugh. “I regret having to disappoint you, my Lady, but I think I’d better restrain myself and show some austerity. Otherwise we may not get out of this chamber all day and we are expected to meet our guests and be good hosts.”

Lothíriel managed to reasonably control her disappointed grimace. “Very well. I suppose it would not be very polite to leave them to their own devices for the rest of their visit. Although my brothers may easily find ways to occupy themselves. At least Erchirion and Amrothos.”

“But somehow I have an inkling that they will want to see for themselves that you have been treated well.”

She slanted him a mischievous glance. “You mean you would not mind me telling Amrothos how well I have been treated . . . and how I have been illuminated by my husband?”

Éomer looked at her with disbelieving horror. It wasn’t feigned. “What do I have to do to keep you away from that brother?”

“Keep me occupied,” she suggested in a husky tone. She stretched, arching her back languidly and watching his reaction from under lowered lashes. It was quite satisfactory. She was learning indeed.

Her husband appeared to share that opinion. “You may learn too quickly, my Lady,” he complained, but his eyes were bright with laughter.

“Would you prefer less eagerness?” she goaded playfully.

He leaned over her without making any reply, gazing deliberately into her eyes, not touching her in any way until his mouth came down on hers. And then she got the kiss she had wanted, deep, slow and thorough. When he finally separated their lips she was breathless. She really had to learn how to attune kissing and breathing in a more effective way.

Éomer smiled at her. “I do not think you have a true notion how much I wish to keep you occupied all day, my sweet.” He traced the shape of her mouth with the knuckle of his forefinger. “But as you set out, all-too-truly, earlier, we are bound to duty and therefore have to give up this cosy togetherness . . . at least until tonight.”

Duty was a word Lothíriel understood indeed. Her expression grew more serious, and she did not realize that the regret she saw in Éomer’s eyes was not alone due to the fact that their wedding night was nearly over and that their obligations had caught up with them as they always would.

“Then I’d better get up and prepare myself for the day.” She turned on her side and propped herself up on her elbow. “I shall send for Winfrith. I think I need to take a bath.” Well, she definitely had this feeling that she desperately needed a bath.

“I thought you would like one. I spoke to Ælfgyth whilst you were still asleep. There is a bath being prepared for you.”

“Oh.”

Lothíriel had a quick look-around, taking in the rumpled bedding, the crumpled up chemise on the floor and her own nude form. She had better make herself presentable before the servants brought in the hot water.

“Éomer, will you please hand me my robe so I can cover myself.” She gestured towards the screen.

Her husband rose obligingly and made his way across the room. “The bath is being prepared in the King’s chamber. Ælfgyth will let us know when it is ready.”

“Oh?”

He took the robe from the hook. “Lothíriel, you have been told that we are expected to take a walk through the city later to meet the people of Edoras and accept their good wishes?”

“Yes, I do know.” She sat up and began to smooth out the quilt that covered her. “Lady Cynewyn was very thorough with her instructions regarding traditions and customs in Rohan. Tonight we will join in the festivities the citizens have arranged in our honour.” Her eyes fell on a brown stain, which made an obvious contrast to the pale green and cream coloured pattern of the bedspread. Her brows came together in a sudden scowl. She ran her fingertips over it. It was dried blood. Her blood. The proof that last night she had given her virginity.

She did not pay regard to Éomer who had come up next to the bed, holding her robe so that she could slip into it. When she didn’t respond he followed the line of her gaze.

“Lothíriel?” he addressed her gently.

“That is supposed to be on the sheet.” When she lifted her eyes to look at Éomer she found him watching her, apparently not quite certain what to make of her remark. “Now the quilt has to be presented for the required examination. This is truly . . .” She stopped herself to search for the appropriate term.

“Embarrassing?” Éomer prompted, again taking his seat on the edge of the bed.

“Embarrassing?” Lothíriel frowned. “Why should it be embarrassing? That a woman bleeds when her virginity is taken is simply a fact. Women are used to bleeding once a month, by the way,” she added, just to make sure he took that into consideration.

The corners of Éomer’s mouth twitched. “So I have been told. No, I thought you might find it embarrassing that we - or rather I - failed to remove the quilt before we made love. That could give the impression that the consummation of our bond was a rather rushed affair.”

 She looked at him mindfully. “But it was not, was it?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no point of reference.”

“Right.” Éomer cleared his throat. “You are certainly not prone to flattering, are you?”

“In what regard am I supposed to flatter?” Lothíriel asked, uncomprehendingly.

He conceded with a grin. “Well, perhaps we’d better postpone that subject and come back to the initial question. You do not like the idea that now the quilt has to be presented?”

“Oh, no. It has nothing to do with the quilt. It is the procedure as such. It is exposing and libellous in equal parts.”

Éomer looked thoroughly surprised. He put her robe, that he was still holding, aside. “Before I draw – once again – the wrong conclusion from your words, perhaps you had better illuminate me.”

Lothíriel didn’t need any time to reflect on what she was going to say. Usually it was as easy for her to follow a sudden train of thought, as it was to follow a brightly lit corridor. She just had to concentrate and not let herself get distracted by Éomer’s close proximity.

“Of course it is justified and understandable that the people of a land desire the certainty that the heir to their land is of the royal blood line,” she set out to explain. “That is basically the reason why women of noble ancestry in general are supposed to go untouched into a bond: to guarantee the parentage of the children they are going to give birth to. But who, if not the man involved, should have the most interest in the legitimacy of his heir and any other children? So why not just take his word that his bride was a virgin. Why has it to be acknowledged by anyone outside of their union? Do you not regard it as an insult to your honour that in this matter your word will not be accepted?”

Éomer, who had listened to her exposition with a look of mingled fascination and amusement on his face, seemed slightly startled when she addressed the question, which was obviously not meant as a rhetorical one, to him.

“I have never viewed this subject in such a light. But I must admit there is quite some truth in your words.”

“Indeed,” she nodded; satisfied that she had apparently been understood. “And as the female part one feels exposed anyway in all a woman’s vulnerability.”

For an instant Éomer stared at her in astonishment, giving the impression that he had genuine difficulties in absorbing her last words. “You feel vulnerable to me?” he asked incredulously. “As my wife?”

“As a woman I do not have your size, I do not have your strength and I do not have your experience. Do you not think that is reason enough to feel vulnerable when you have to consummate the bond for the first time? A woman has to surrender, to be taken and it is she who bleeds when her body is invaded, not the man. And on top of everything the evidence of it will be flaunted. That is not only exposing, that is humiliating.”

“Lothíriel, please.” Éomer got up from the bed, ploughing his fingers vehemently through his hair. “Listening to you one would gain the impression that I have forced myself upon you.” He rubbed his temples. “Excuse me, but in my recollection you enjoyed our lovemaking. I have the marks from your nails on my shoulders and they are not defensive scratches.”

“Oh.” She felt her cheeks grow hot and almost habitually took refuge in a pragmatic approach. “I am sorry. Perhaps I’d better disinfect them.” She fumbled for her robe with the intention of getting some spirits from her small healer’s chest she had found last evening in the chamber. But Éomer intercepted her, dropping down on the edge of the bed and catching both of her wrists.

“Forget the scratches!” he ordered exasperated. “Would you mind explaining what you meant by ‘you have to surrender your body to be taken’?”

“Nothing repugnant. Quite the contrary.”

“Well, not that that statement makes the matter any less confusing, but I think I had better be relieved.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm.

“Éomer.” She tugged at her wrists and he let her go. Now she caught one of his hands with both of hers and raised it to her lips, the way he used to do it. “Your lovemaking is pleasurable.” She frowned. Proper diction was important. “Very pleasurable, actually. And I gladly surrendered my body to you because I trust you and I love you. But that is not the point.”

“Then enlighten me about what the point is.” His other hand circled the nape of her neck, fingers buried in her wildly tousled hair. With his thumb he pushed gently under her chin, tilting her face slightly so that she was obliged to meet his eyes. “I am afraid as soon as you begin to elucidate any of your trains of thought my brain gets highly confused – even overtaxed - and refuses to follow you.”

She searched his face. In his eyes she saw the impatience he felt, maybe even with himself because he didn’t seem able to grasp what she was trying to give him an understanding of. At the same time she sensed his willingness to comprehend something he had probably never wasted a second thought on. She gave a tiny sigh. Perhaps it was, in fact, her. She had been told before by other people that her way of thinking was slightly different and tended to make things more complicated. Not that she saw it that way. It was probably a matter of perspective. But now Éomer definitely wanted an explanation.

“You know certainly better than I,” she began, “that as the royal couple we are going to live our life under the scrutinizing eyes of a great many people. If we choose to acknowledge it or not, they are going to watch us, judge us and gossip about us.”

Éomer pushed an indefinable noise out through his nose. “I may have to remind myself of that at frequent intervals, but it is not a fact that is likely to slip my mind on a permanent basis. It seems that nowadays I cannot sneeze without everybody within a radius of ten leagues learning about it.”

“And the only retreat we will have, where we will be allowed something resembling privacy, is this.” She pointed with her forefinger down onto the bed. “I know I am expected to provide an heir for Rohan who will be begotten in it.” Her eyes darted to the rug in front of the hearth. “Most likely,” she added, not missing Éomer’s quick grin. It wasn’t much of a smile, just a faint lifting of the corners of his firm mouth. “You may feel this is ridiculous and I am making too much of it, acting just petulantly, but having to put out the bloodstained sheet or quilt on display is just one step short of having had somebody watch me . . . us whilst . . . .” Her train of thought made another leap. “And the whole matter is utterly pointless as there is no guarantee that this is actually my blood or at least my virginal blood. It could come from a deliberately self-inflicted cut. So in the end it is down to our word anyway.”

Lothíriel fell silent, aware that she was suddenly waiting somehow anxiously for his response. She was afraid she had prattled again. It seemed she simply couldn’t overcome the temptation of trying to explain herself to him. She would have been better trying to understand him instead. A flash of uneasiness shot through her. She studied him cautiously.

She blinked when she found him gazing down at her in a most amused manner. “My dear wife, I think from now on I shall invite you to all my meetings with the Royal Council. You should not have a problem producing any number of arguments I might need to strengthen my case against those old men.”

Before Lothíriel had a real chance to decide if she should feel offended by his words which were put forward in a pretty jesting tone, or rather relieved that he saw a humorous side to her abstruse lecture, Éomer got up abruptly, grabbed her robe and let it fall into her lap.

“May I?”

He pulled the quilt from her grasp and crumpled it up. Surprised by his sudden action Lothíriel forgot for the moment to cover herself with the robe. Uncomprehendingly she watched Éomer carry the much-abused coverlet over to the hearth and only then did she realise his intention.

“Éomer! What are you doing?”

Without bothering to slip on the robe she bounded out of bed but it was too late. Her husband had just thrown the quilt into the flames. Taking the poker and pushing it deeper into the hearth, he glanced at her over his shoulder.

“That should take care of your objections.”

He turned around to watch with an appreciative expression the way she twisted her body in an effort to struggle into her robe.

“My expositions or objections were of the theoretical kind.” She finished tying the bow of her belt with a forceful yank.

“Well, I am not of the theoretical kind,” he replied. “I do not see any sense in exchanging or listening to arguments without getting down to actions in the wake of them.”

“You have been listening only to my arguments and not to possible counterarguments of those others involved, of those who are expecting to be presented with the proof of the bride’s virginity and the consummation of the bond. What are you going to tell them?”

“I am their king and not the head of some debating society. They will have to take my word. Our word.”

She looked doubtfully at the hearth where the quilt, which at first had nearly quenched the flames, but was now beginning to burn happily, the stuffing of fine goose-down having caught fire. When she had set out to define her position she certainly hadn’t expected this kind of result. Éomer was definitely not in favour of fuzzy theory. She should have guessed.

“Éomer . . .”

“No,” he interrupted at once, though he couldn’t have an inkling of what she was going to say. He stepped closer and framed her face tenderly with his calloused palms. “During the next months there will be a lot of pressure on you. The House of Eorl needs an heir and you are expected to bear him. And you will be under the scrutiny of so many people who will watch how you are going to adapt to life in Rohan, how the princess from Gondor will manage to become the Queen of the Riddermark.”

“I have known from the beginning that there would be those kinds of expectations.” Lothíriel touched Éomer’s wrist on either side of her face. “I understand it and I accept it.”

“But I am not sure if I should be relieved or rather worried that you are accepting that kind of pressure so willingly. Lothíriel, first and foremost I want you at my side and not a woman someone else thinks you should be. I do not want you to accommodate the wishes of others unchallenged because you feel it is your duty. There will be so many times when we have to subordinate ourselves to the demands of our station. I do not want to begin with a matter that, already – as you argued quite rightly - makes no sense and is nothing more than an absurd, handed-down custom.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Never doubt that your well-being will always be of the utmost importance to me.”

She parted her lips to tell him how much she appreciated his solicitousness but the words never formed. Éomer’s mouth was somehow in the way, cutting them off before they could form. Her arms encircled his neck and she reminded herself to take a deep breath through her nose to avoid getting once more short-winded because of a kiss.

There was a smell. Her brain, solely occupied with taking in the pleasure of his caressing lips, only belatedly caught on and registered the nature of the smell. It was the pungent odour of charred wool. She opened her eyes and over Éomer’s shoulder she saw that the rug in front of the hearth was on fire. Before she had the chance to react Éomer released her so abruptly from his arms that she staggered a couple of steps backwards. She heard him swearing in Rohirric. By now she had enough experience of listening to those sorts of diatribes as to be able to easily identify them for what they were.

It seemed, that with going up in flames, the crumpled quilt had unfurled and partly fallen out of the hearth, setting light to the very rug they had made love on the night before.

With a fast reaction Éomer had grabbed the end of the rug that was not burning and pushed it over the licking flames, trying to beat out the fire. Whilst Lothíriel was still considering if it made sense to empty the large pitcher from the wash stand over the whole mess, her husband had already smothered the flames and stuffed the quilt back into the hearth, this time making sure that it stayed inside.

Lothíriel stepped closer, throwing a glance at the still slightly smouldering heap which just a moment ago had been an artfully woven rug. “It is ruined, I am afraid,” she remarked. Her bare toes came in contact with the cold floor tiles and she hastily retreated back onto the rug she had been standing on.

Éomer brushed some ash off his robe. A slow grin spread over his features.

“It looks as if we burnt any underlay we made love on last night.”

Lothíriel blinked but quickly picked herself up. “You burnt the quilt and the rug,” she stressed, jabbing a finger towards him. “And in that connection nearly burnt down this chamber.” She took a sniff. “At least you impaired it with a ghastly odour.”

“That is just from the scorched wool. The chamber only needs a thorough airing.  It would be best to get it done right away, before any of your clothing takes on the stench.”

Without any forewarning he reached for her and, scooping her up in his arms, he carried her over to the door which connected with the King’s bedchamber.

“What are you doing?”

“We have to instruct Ælfgyth to clean out this mess and air your chamber. In the meantime you can take your bath.”

He was going to carry her into his chamber where probably servants were still busy with the preparation of the bath.

“I can walk,” she protested.

“You feet are going to get cold again.”

“I have shoes.”

“I have not seen any around. Better to put your arms around my neck and cease fidgeting.”

He held her easily with one arm whilst he unbolted the door and pushed it open, carrying her over the threshold. As she had assumed there were servants in the large room, which occupied the entire ground floor of the south western corner tower. A huge four-poster of carved wood and with dark green drapes dominated it.

When Éomer entered the chamber, the housekeeper of Meduseld and two young serving wenches turned towards him. Recognizing the load he was carrying, unmistakable grins appeared on the latter’s faces. That was mortifying. Lothíriel did her best to fight back the warmth in her cheeks and made an unsuccessful effort to cover her leg which had been left bare by the slipping robe. And she preferred not to give a thought to the state of her hair.

Ælfgyth managed without any obvious sign to usher the other two women out of the chamber, but the door had not even closed behind them when they could be heard bursting out in giggles. Lothíriel sighed, but would rather have ground her teeth. It appeared that she had just begun her life as a queen in a not exactly dignified manner, thanks to her husband.

“My Lady Queen, good morning.” The housekeeper bowed to her as if she were standing in front of her in her regal apparel.

“Good morning, Mistress Ælfgyth.” At least she could always rely on her voice. The tone of composure, that was instilled long ago, never abandoned her.

Éomer sat her down on his bed and turned towards the housekeeper, apparently unaware that his wife was highly tempted to punch him once again and was only refraining from doing so because she had learnt by now that it was rather unlikely for her to be able to inflict any real pain on him. Except, perhaps, if she hit him with something heavy. But then she might not be able to lift a suitable object high enough to cosh him with it.

“Ælfgyth, I am afraid we had a mishap.”

“You had a mishap,” Lothíriel couldn’t help herself correcting him, pondering the merits of hemlock.

Éomer looked at her over his shoulder and flashed her one of his spine-tingling grins. He turned back to the housekeeper who had to be admired for not even batting an eyelid.

“I had a mishap,” he continued. “The Queen’s chamber has to be cleaned and aired, as quickly as possible, meaning at once.”

“Very well, my Lord, I will see to it.” Ælfgyth managed to keep her voice perfectly neutral. She looked at her queen. “My Lady, your bath is ready. Do you wish me to send for Winfrith?”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to answer but Éomer forestalled her. “Not right now.” She closed her mouth again with an audible click of her teeth.

“Very well, my Lord,” the older woman said once again. This time there was a hidden but definite smile in her voice. She bowed and left the chamber through the connecting door to see for herself what needed to be done in the other room. Éomer followed her and Lothíriel could hear him speaking to the housekeeper in their mutual tongue.

What was it about Éomer that one moment he could be considerate and mindful, and the next patronizing, treating her like an imbecile and moving her around like a chattel?

She slid off the bed and made her way behind the screen, which was the same kind as the one that shielded the washing facilities in her chamber. The copper bathtub she found was bigger than the one in the other room; no wonder, as it had to accommodate a larger body. It was filled with hot water, but there was enough capacity left to take a couple of buckets more. It seemed they had interrupted the servants in their task. Another three big steaming casks stood on the floor. Lothíriel decided to pour the remaining water from the wooden buckets into the tub, as she liked to have the bathing water up to her neck.

With the help of her belt she secured her hair into an unruly bun on top of her head, slipped off her robe and stepped into the bath, easing herself into the hot, soothing water. This was better than just good. She stretched contentedly and closing her eyes, she rested her head on the edge of the tub. She exhaled slowly, a long, satisfied sigh of relief. This was precisely what her weary muscles needed.

“I wish I had some laurel oil,” she murmured.

“I, on the other hand, am not very fond of scents and oils.”

Lothíriel’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Éomer’s dark, lazy voice. She found her husband smirking down at her. He had once again caught her off guard. Rohan’s King seemed to have a rare talent for sneaking up on one like a big cat on an unsuspecting bird. What was it again that Amrothos had explained to her about cats and birds?

Before she could think of an appropriate remark she saw him untying the belt of his robe.

“What do you intend doing?” she asked, although she had forebodings about what was going to happen.

“I am taking a bath,” he announced whilst removing the robe and throwing it over the screen.

“Not in here!”

“It is my bathtub,” he reminded her.

“It is not big enough.”

“Nonsense,” he replied casually. “You are not taking up that much space.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently forward.

“There is not enough space for both of us and all the water. Éomer! No!”

It was too late. He had already stepped into the tub and settled down behind her and all the additional water she had poured earlier into the tub slopped over the edge in a cascade, flooding the floor and soaking all the surrounding rugs and skins that were covering the cold tiles.

Lothíriel stared at the deluge, blinking. Somewhere in the back of her mind she calculated how many bucketfuls of water Éomer’s body had just displaced. In all probability exactly the three she had added. How could they feel bothered by the gossip around them when they so freely delivered all the nourishment the gossipmongers could wish for? First they had set fire to the Queen’s Chamber and now they had flooded the King’s Chamber. There was no reason to believe that the servants in Rohan were that much different from the servants in Gondor. No doubt, they would happily spread the tale all over Edoras with lightning speed. 

An arm wrapped around her midsection and she was pulled back against a hard chest.

“You were right,” Éomer stated unconcernedly. “There was too much water in the tub.”

Lothíriel relaxed reluctantly into the big, strong body behind her. Until last night she had not been accustomed to sharing a bed with another human being, but had been aware that it was expected between husband and wife. But it had never occurred to her that she was supposed to share a bath. That was not only a new realisation but also a very new experience. A pleasant one, as all new experiences with Éomer so far had turned out to be. She had always savoured his embraces and had discovered last night that they were even more satisfactory when there were no clothes separating their bodies, when they were just skin-to-skin. She nestled closer and let her head sink back against his shoulder, closing her eyes pleasurably. Wet skin to wet skin was an even more sensual sensation. She gave a soft, husky sigh.

Éomer’s palms smoothed over her thighs, over her belly and the long fingers of one hand found their way to her breast, cupping it, shaping it and stroking gently. A wave of pure physical pleasure that had its origin in her toes moved through Lothíriel. Éomer dropped light, unbelievingly tantalizing kisses on her temple and behind her ear. His teeth closed lightly around her earlobe and her belly went taut at this caresses.

“Do you have the slightest notion how much I am tempted to lock us into this chamber for the foreseeable future?” he murmured in his most alluring purr.

“Well, somebody will have to mop up the water first.”

Lothíriel’s non-suppressible pragmatism assumed command over her tongue before her brain had the chance to intervene. She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and tilting her head far backwards over Éomer’s shoulder. She felt the vibrations caused in his chest by the fit of laughter that had seized him. He kissed her exposed throat and then caught her chin between his fingers, tipping it, turning her face so he could look into her eyes.

“At some point in my life I must have done something right; something good; something some deity now wishes to reward me for. And I have been given the most precious and most unpredictable reward a man can desire.”

He turned her around so that she faced him. It was somehow disconcerting how easily he was able to move her and furthermore this position was slightly uncomfortable, causing a hollow-back. But she got quickly distracted from any inconvenience. Éomer’s hand smoothed her hair out of her damp face.

“You are unique, Lothíriel of Rohan. Definitely one of a kind.”

He covered her mouth and kissed her thoroughly. Before her mind went blank as it usually did at this stage, Lothíriel remembered something and pulled back.

“Éomer, you have to teach me.”

“Always at your service, my sweet. To teach you what?”

“How to breathe properly when kissing.”

He chuckled and his green-gold eyes were gleaming with laughter and love.

“As most things in life that is just a matter of practice.”

“In that case I am determined to practise more.”

“As I said, my Lady, always at your service,” Éomer assured her. He gathered her closer and grinned down at her beguilingly. “And there is something else which is going to get better with more practice.”

“And what would that be?” she asked matching his seductive tone.

“Riding.”

TBC