I should undress, if it pleases you." She blushed now, like the tween she'd not been for long years, thinking of how thin and marred she was beneath her sumptuous gown.
But Aragorn had been her healer before he'd become her king, he knew her every scar; his smile was wondrous as he said, "Let me," and lifted her dress off, then her underdress. Below those she wore bloomers from home and the breast-binding Pervinca had learned from Merry's beloved Eowyn, and Aragorn's face was a study in concentration as he unfastened the broad ribbon and drew it off in a high loop.
Once more Froda wondered what strange fancy had possessed her to offer herself to Aragorn when she must be a mere morsel to him, and now he banished those thoughts entirely with his featherlight touch, cupping her small high breasts in his palms, running his fingers lightly as a breeze over her ribs and hips, down her calves and through her foot-curls. She opened eyes she hadn't known she'd closed to look upon his face between her feet, and had to smile, almost laughing with the surge of joy.
"You are exquisite," Aragorn told her, truth in his eyes, his hands engulfing her knees. "So lovely. May I?" He gestured at her bloomers, her last garment.
"Only if you disrobe as well," she asked, feeling mischief crease her cheek; then she was surprised by how swiftly Aragorn could undress when he had a mind to, his jerkin and tunic and breeches all falling to the floor, and then astonished by his lean muscular grace, the breadth of his chest and the dark straight hair ranged across it, the power in his long arms and legs and oh, her breath caught as she regarded his prick in its nest of wiry hair. Its size certainly sorted with the rest of him, but with hers -- she doubted her hand would fit its girth, and reached out to try.