A/N: Teeny little drabble for Plaidi, for her birthday. It's about an hour late, but still. :D Beware the creepy, for there is a lot in this piece.
Even if he cannot bend her totally to his will, he can always make her dance. All he need do is whisper the smallest suggestion in her uncle's ear, and Théoden sees to the rest. Even if Éowyn does not know it is Gríma's will, it pleases him to watch her so eager to do as he wishes. Nothing else he asks of her is ever done so readily.
She likes to dance with wild abandon, always to the fastest music. She throws her head back, and her golden hair flies free behind her. She lifts her arms and spins around the fire, a heated blush creeping slowly up her neck and to her cheeks. Her chest heaves, and he devours every second with the ravenousness of the starving. Blessed creature, she is ever unaware of his eyes.
She smiles a little when she dances, slowly at first, just a twitch of those tender pink lips. Then they part, exposing shining teeth, a lovely pink tongue. She bites it a little as she dances, her smile growing ever wider. The blush creeps higher, until she is quite flushed and her face glimmers with sweat.
He clings to every instant of it, at rapt attention in his seat, not even daring to blink. But the moment that he really lives for is the glimpse of her slim ankles. When she is truly lost in the dance, she spins so quickly that her skirt sails upwards; there is a sudden flash of white, an instant where the ankles and soft curve of her calves are exposed – an instant where she is indecent, just for him. Just because he asked.
He revels in those ankles.
One day, he vows, he will see every last inch of her, naked at his beckoning. For now, the ankles are enough.