Impulse control and the nigh on constant desire to provoke him being what they are, it should come as little surprise that she doesn't even pause to entertain the thought of trying not to say, immediately, “Are you sure your hip can take it?” —but she wouldn't have asked if she actually thought the answer might be no, to judge by the tilt of her smile, and the way she illustrates her very serious concern for his well-being by hitching her knee up over it, shifting her weight beneath him like she's trying to test a saddle.

(She prefers him above her, on the whole, but what she likes about riding Thranduil is how much he likes it.)

She missed this, she thinks, though it's hardly as though they've been apart. Scarcely even inches, as if they can fill up the cool absence of Iorveth with their own warmth. Still, recovering from Ghislain, physically and otherwise—neither of them have come to bed with intent in too long, and now they are wedded in the eyes of the Chantry (or at least what parts of it won't continue to decry the Inquisition in general and rifters in particular) and it feels like a welcome opportunity to reassert themselves privately, having done it publicly. Which is an intolerably sentimental thought that she'd derail with something appropriately absurd if she had her hands free,

it's always only been a matter of time before she slapped him on the backside just to see what his face does,

but instead she is warm and near and held so firmly she entertains the appealing notion it may bruise and trapped with the thought that she loves him, very much.