“I will welcome it,” he vows, all that might be implied in such a statement filed awake in the wake of his increasing awareness of her body and his irritation drawing him like a taut bowstring. She binds him with satin ribbons better than others might with cold iron chains, and he goes to them willingly, the only strain—and it is light—to make sure his blood will not pool in his wrists and palms, when it is so urgently needed elsewhere.

Also, he is disinclined to break their bed.

“Beloved,” he says, caresses the word, vowels stretched Sindarin-long. “Come closer. Let me please you. I cannot manage it when you are so far away.”