Here I am finally belatedly cleaning up and posting Annafan's birthday present... If I am trying to properly keep track..this is the prequel to Lost in Translation and comes after the Bride Price. Our favourite pair on their honeymoon in Rohan. As this is Sianverse Eowyn she was a virgin on her wedding night but is falling into her new role of wife with great abandon..
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"I think that note was A."
A rose-gold flush creeps up Eowyn's chest and neck. "Was it?" she squeaks. It might have been-she doesn't know- but now, lying breathless and wrecked, utterly shocked at the almost frantic, keening cry that filled their warm cocoon just moments past, she shakes her head. Was that really her? It must have been because she was the only of one of them panting, tingling all across her nether parts and boneless with a lassitude.
"I believe it was.. that last tone..the one that shattered.…"
"I didn't know that would happen," she protests shyly, hiding her embarrassment behind a fall of tangled golden hair.
"I adore it.. " Faramir's chuckle is warm and smug as his lips nuzzle across the soft hollow at her hip. He too is flushed, but with pride, not wild release, and his normally rich baritone voice is low, a little throaty. She shivers. A shower of open-mouthed, musky wet kisses trail across her belly and her chest. His voice is rough because he has been tonguing at her qwm. Until she broke apart.
He grins, settles on his elbow alongside and brushes her hair back across her shoulder before planting a final, faintly brackish kiss upon her lips. "It is not like pleasuring yourself is it, love? It is rather more intense when another person is involved." Eowyn blushes and shakes her head. No it is not. Her own fingers never made her cry out that way. Or left her so desperately craving more. It is one particular part of being a newly married woman no one, not even Hilde, had adequately explained.
The kisses wander distractingly across her neck…
They have had two gloriously secluded days to themselves in Rohan's Royal hunting lodge. No servants. No one demanding them. No need to do anything that they do not want. The newlyweds have spent their time discovering each other- relaxing, riding and hiking, feasting on the excellent provisions already thoughtfully laid in. Her husband, it turns out, is actually quite a good cook, perfectly at ease in doing for himself and absolutely certain it is as manly to be competent with a pan as a bow.
They have also spent the better part of an entire day in bed.
Faramir, unquestionably a man of many, many talents, is also an accomplished lover. She wonders if he is particularly skilled? She has no basis for comparison, but her body knows it is utterly what it wants. Already the melting liquid ache for him—his cock, his warm weight, his strength, has flowed back into her. It makes her squirm, anxious, impatient to be full. Bema..how could she so quickly become addicted to this man? It was..addiction.. already.. Just a touch.. a glance… Cheeks flaming in embarrassment, wondering how she will sit at the high table. It is one thing to brush hands when one accidentally drops the cutlery. But now, the knowledge of what they can do brings an entirely different twist.
Faramir hums gently and rolls away, reaches across the rumpled sheets to pick up his feadan. The well-worn reed pipe has, like a book, been his almost constant companion on their holiday. Eowyn is thrilled – that he loves music is an especial treat. (a skill almost as revered by her people as riding). The days have felt like Mettare: unwrapping an endless succession of gifts as his interests and desires have been shared. Some, like lazing in bed-joking and speaking quite openly-of everything-she had anticipated. Other skills required a certain amount of new experience to understand.
A man who plays the feadan can purse his lips in the most interesting and mobile ways…..
She stretches languidly and watches the late afternoon sun chase dust motes through the air. An almost dazed glow settles across her skin- it keeps her warm-she does not need him close for warmth—but she most definitely need to be filled. Soon. Impatience is her besetting sin, but then she thinks there are some advantages to not being too impatient. Muscle and sinew ripple temptingly beside as Faramir turns back, catches their legs together. One shift is all it takes. She reaches and trails her small strong fingers along his spine. The hot brand that has imprinted itself against leg now lies, hard and insistent against the smooth plane of his belly. It needs attention…and her fingers are itching to touch warm satin skin.
"Fara?"
A single high ululating note trills out. "Do I have it?" An inquisitive black eyebrow arches up.
Eowyn giggles. "I don't know! I couldn't hear…" He will not let this pass….stubbornly, until he gets it right.
"You couldn't?" A wicked grin flashes as another note fills the air. "It was a little muffled from my vantage point. Was your head thrashing back and forth too fast to catch it? It was rather impressively sustained."
She thumps him on the arm. Yes she was thrashing. And moaning. Quivering all over and quite unable to pay attention to the sounds coming from her mouth. It is his fault for being so wicked with his lips. The thought sends another rush of warmth to her inner core. A trill of lower pitches wafts in and she bites her lip in thought.
"Too low."
"This?"
Another note, this one a little high and she is mesmerized by a sudden running scale, lithe fingers making a mockery of complicated fingering.
She wants them somewhere else…
"Where did you learn to do that…that…manoeuvre?"
He waves the tawny wood innocently. "With my pipe?"
"No.. Your tongue!" Now a pillow is engaged. He ducks adroitly, hands catch hers and hold them fast, setting down his instrument for safety. "Not in the brothels, I can sincerely promise you that. " A wry grin spreads across his lips. "Nor in Minas Tirith's fabled library."
Eowyn can't help but snort. No, she supposes not, although with her husband's love of lore it wouldn't be for want of looking. This is one of the new discoveries she finds that she loves—Faramir's rather self-deprecating sense of humour.
"Did Boromir help you look?"
A belly laugh echoes round their little room. "Only for the choicest woodcuts!" Faramir shakes his head. "They weren't much help in truth. Sadly rather light on the 'practical details'." His mischievous grin softens for a moment. "My brother explained once that the most under-appreciated part of sex was giving pleasure to your partner. He was not wrong. It makes me feel like the King of all Middle-Earth to hear you cry out so long."
Eowyn's embarrassed flush steals back. The 'King' in this field of duty is quite singularly focused on her; attentive, gentle for the most part, excitingly a little wild just once, patient for his own need. He is not so very quiet himself she wants to say but bites her lip. What is the etiquette of orgasm? This is all new and she does not know if she is supposed to notice the almost rapturous frown of concentration on his face? The moment his lips part and a strangled groan tumbles out? The gasped and pained version of her name? Perhaps that should wait for another day…
"Is it so for everyone?" she asks.
"No.. " Faramir admits, and nestles back along her length. One leg is thrown over hers. His cock now lies, twitching slightly, against her hip. It feels heavy. Just right for filling a hollow ache. The throbbing want steals back; hungry and insistent. She shifts to add a little pressure. From the glow in his slate-grey eyes Faramir knows exactly what he doing to his lady. "Some people are rather quiet. I much prefer this way. There is the very real possibility of scandalizing the entire palace."
"You!" His hands rise up to only half-heartedly defend himself and then they quickly go back to roving lazily, almost tortuously along the curve of her breast. Unfair. She cannot resist his touch and well he knows it. He ducks his head to suck on one peaked nipple and it is maddening. She threads her fingers through his long black locks and holds on tight.
The trickle of heat becomes a conflagration.
Two can play at this. Boldly, she reaches down, grabs his buttocks to pull him back above, circles her hips so that the tip of his now straining cock glides against the wet of her swelling folds.
"Wyn…"
Much better. He is the one now clawing hot with need. The muscles of his stomach ripple, his buttocks clench, every little subtle shift she is coming to know. And need.
For a long teasing moment she pulls back each time the soft velvet of the tip meets her and sends quivers up his spine. Faramir is frowning, as needy as she, but carefully trying to stay in control. He can feel what she wants, the slick heat that is torture to them both, but she is drawing out the game. Making them both wait, need tightening like a spring and then belatedly she realizes that Boromir is right. It will be a delight for her to take Faramir to the precipice and push him over—watch him tumble with abandon into a storm of feeling. She lifts her hips and twists. With a groan he gives in: their lips crash together, kisses fierce like a summer storm rain down as she reaches, grasps harder at the smooth muscles of his thighs.
"I do not know that note," she breathes, "perhaps if I listen first…"
Eyes glittering with need, Faramir dips his head and captures at her mouth. With one swift thrust of hip he sinks deeper… until she can feel his warmth tight against her skin. "Do you not…?" he asks through gritted teeth. The draws out are long and smooth, the plunges back strong and sharp. Éowyn gasps.
Oh this man. She digs her heels into the rushes of the mattress, raises her hips to meet each thrust, concentrating, willing him to break apart and then it hits. The inchoate crescendo. The primal keening cry.
After, laughing and drunk on a tide of release, he will admit it is the sound of her arousal that he utterly cannot resist. "You sing."
"I suppose I do." She pouts, just the teensiest bit put out that she did not make him shatter first. Perhaps this can be a challenge. Gaining the upper hand will take some practice. An archer does have singular focus on hitting home. He is the best bowman in all of Gondor. Nothing will be left to chance.
She reaches up, twines her fingers in the soft strands at his nape and plots a strategy. Surprising him. Tricking him into losing all control will be an utterly glorious campaign.
"We shall have to try again…."
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.I think the phrase I used in Lost in Translation was that Faramir felt like he had opened a box of fireworks. ^_^ Their passion for each other will never dim...