If asked, Éomer would say that she is not the type of woman who requires tender platitudes in bed. She's spent well over half her life training to ride with, and then riding with, and then leading an éored. The majority of the people she spends any time with are men. She is tall, and strong, and ruthless in a fight. Her embroidery is atrocious.

Eskel's low, peat-smoke voice murmuring in her ear is making her wonder if she should rethink that stance, at least a little bit.

She wants to rock herself back onto his fingers and revel in the thick stretch of his knuckles inside her, but she also wants to come again, and after a few long minutes of trying to decide which option to pick, she winds up deciding on the latter; shifting her weight to brace herself on one arm beside his head, she reaches down with her free hand and brushes his thumb away so she can rub at her clit the way she likes best, winding herself up tighter and tighter until she cries out, clenching down hard around the fingers inside her and trembling through her second orgasm of the night.