"A pretty answer from a pretty maid."

And she's pleased to do as she's bid. Mercutio closes the distance between their lips in another crushing kiss; more of her weight settles onto Éowyn, clothed chest against bare skin, fingers tightening on Éowyn's wrist. She shifts her hand so that her palm is cupping Éowyn's mound again, in a position better suited for rhythmic pressing and grinding.

Here she intends to stay, until she gets at least a few more of those groans out of Éowyn. Saints above, but it's a lovely sound, artless and free.