Title: Gypsy Queen

Summary: When you've married out of duty rather than love, a wedding night can be an uncomfortable - and painful - experience. Or maybe, it could be the start of something more.

Rating: M. Definitely M!

Warnings: Smut, filthy smut, some arguments, and more filthy smut.

Author: QuikkSilver

~ * Gypsy Queen * ~

"Marriage is the only war where you sleep with the enemy." - Gypsy Proverb

"You look beautiful."

She barely heard her mother's words, so intent she was on looking at her own reflection. She no longer resembled the gawky, undeveloped teen who had stood before this looking glass a terrified and awkward child. Her mother's wedding gown had made a great deal of improvement - it had been passed down through generations, resulting in a faded, but still beautiful, display of colors. Her skirts were deeply ruffled and splashed with gradual colors, pure white at the trimmings and reached a slow crescendo from light pink to deepest crimson at her bosom. Her wild black hair had been pulled up and back, away from her neck, piled on her head in intricate braids, leaving her shoulders and collarbones bare to show more of her cinnamon colored skin than she was comfortable with showing. An artful layer of black kohl rimmed her large blue eyes, her cheeks colored lightly with blush and her nails were painted from a set of dyes in her mother's dresser. A tiara, a simple crown of beaten silver, was perched on her black hair, and her feet were bare, almost hidden by the folds of her gown. She was no longer the frightened-looking seventeen year old who had sobbed and demanded her arranged marriage to be dissolved - she was a proud, haughty Gypsy Princess, her painted eyes dark and mysterious, her dress dramatic and striking. She lived up to her title and stature - she had become a woman.

Her mother stood behind her, similar in appearance but taller and broader through the waist and hips. Her body was not as slender, not as delicate as her daughter was, but she was still majestically beautiful, in a older, more mature way. Gold bracelets decorated her arms and brass hoops glinted from her ears, while her daughter went without jewelry save her simple tiara. She swallowed hard and stroked her daughter's arm, realizing - not for the first time, nor the last - that she was speaking to her daughter as a child for the last time. After today, after tonight, she and her daughter would be equals. "He is a good man," She said softly. "Florica, I promise he will not harm you."

"You can not promise what another man will fulfill," Florica said, her voice breaking even as she stared at herself in the looking-glass, quoting an old Gypsy proverb. "You do not know him as a husband, Mama. You know him as a King, a Gypsy King. How can anyone tell how he is with those beneath him? How can anyone know how he truly is?"

"No one can tell you that, chere," Her mother said quietly. "But I know, as one of his subjects, he has always been good to our people. From the side he shows his subjects, I know he will not harm you. You are a beautiful, wonderful woman, and any man would die to have you as his wife."

"But would this man?" Florica questioned her reflection, those blue eyes never straying from her identical twin, her reflection. She often spent time looking at her reflection - they were twins in appearance, but were they the same in nature? Was her reflection sassy and rebellious, brave and bold, daring and tempting, while she was quiet and domestic, sly yet silent, sensible, but also cunning? Or were they the same inside and out? She looked at her mother in the mirror, meeting her eyes in the looking glass. "Will this man treat me as a subject, as a queen, as a wife? And I even suited for this role? Am I ready to go from the daughter of a Gypsy Prince to a Queen? What elevates me above girls my own age? My status as a Gypsy Princess? Because of who I am fathered by, that makes me a Queen instead of a normal girl? Marriage, I have been told, is bonded through love - why must I bond through duty?"

Her mother pressed a kiss to the crown of her daughter's head. "You ask questions I cannot answer, mon chere," She whispered. "I know you are suited to this role because you are a pillar of strength and dignity. You carry noble blood in your veins - you are the perfect girl to become Gypsy Queen. We knew at birth you would be a queenly woman, a beautiful woman, and you have not disappointed. As for marriage, I married your father through duty, but I bore it with pride. I love your father more than I have ever loved air or light - I would gladly sacrifice both just to spend more time with him. Someone must bear heirs for the Gypsy Throne, and you are to be married to the best King I have ever known. Please, dear daughter, bear your sufferings in silence and accept what you have been given."

Florica lowered her painted eyes and took a silent breath. "I will, Mama." She turned to her mother and looked up at her, swallowing her tears. "I will." She stood on tiptoe and kissed each cheek, and then embraced her mother carefully, studious as not to disrupt her appearance.

Her mother watched her leave their caravan, taking the steps one at a time instead of her usual bounding fashion. Florica stood straight and tall, her willful chin shaking only once as she stifled her tears for the last time.

The sound of rattling tambourines and whooping drew her over to the space cleared for the wedding. Her wedding. People, dressed in colorful clothes of both crude make and detailed, were dancing and singing, their deep voices ringing throughout the cavern where they lived. A high, unearthly voice swung through the chorus, and Florica caught sight of Esmerelda, her cousin, dancing in a whirling green dress, in the center of the crowd. She was beautiful beyond comparison, a goddess on the earth, a dark, luxurious angel tethered to mortality and the human world. When she saw Esmerelda, the slight sense of grandeur that Florica had in her mother's old wedding dress dissipated like water in flame. She was a child, dressed in her mother's clothing, a teenager playing dress-up and pretending to be a Gypsy Princess. She hung her head and almost let her tears escape. But she remembered her mother's words - Bear your sufferings in silence - and picked her head up, discreetly tilted her head back, and breathed deeply. She continued down the narrow "street" until she reached the main divide where their caravans separated to form a long row down the center of the cavern.

Women of her age and older line the road, singing and swaying their round hips to the fast, strong music, their black hair tumbling in cords down their shoulders, gold glinting on their arms and ankles, white teeth flashing in their dark faces. As she passed them, she caught sight of many familiar faces - Malia, her best friend since childhood; Teoun, her older brother - but that was all she could see, for her eyes were blurred. Flower petals were pressed against the stone floor beneath her feet as she walked slowly down the entire length of the cavern, on parade for her entire community, her band of friends and family, her people, her gypsies. She knew that to them she must look like an infant, and mere baby playing a game, but after tonight, she would be a Gypsy Queen. With this thought in mind, she tossed her head and flared her nostrils, allowing a spark of artificial defiance light her large blue eyes. She had bartered in marketplaces before, pulled the wool over old lady's eyes as she looked in their futures. She could act. She would act. She would play the game perfectly, and God help those who stood in her way.

He watched his bride come down the divide, wearing her mother's wedding gown. He had resisted the marriage as long as possible, unwilling to marry and bed the child he had bounced on his knee as a youth and told stories, unable to see her as anything but a girl and a child. But here, walking with slow, decisive movements, her dark hair piled perfectly away from those usually distant blue eyes, was no girl. This was a woman, by God, a woman whose painted eyes were no longer dreamy and carefree, but hard and sharp, fire narrowing them and making them seem cold as winter clinging to stone. He had known her as a girl, knew that she made stories for herself and others, sang songs in her head, and generally used every excuse to not play with other children her age. She had secluded herself, and the general idea of her was that she was a spoilt Gypsy Princess, a snobbish teenager who thought that her high birth meant she was something special. She had been a quiet girl who liked to be alone and examine things on her own time, in her own place. But now, there was no serene, sweet shyness in her eyes - they were dark with thunder and she almost scowled with her eyes. But her face was a perfect mask, daubed prettily with paints and powders, her breasts amplified by a harsh corset.

When she drew closer to him, she took in his quick, sharp features. He was a handsome man, Clopin was, with black hair that grazed his collar, darting, furtive eyes that were blacker than spilled ink or a moonless night. A pointed goatee complimented his angular face nicely, and his gold earring brushed his dark cheek, that mischievous smile simmering below the surface. But there was another emotion, trying to rear its head, and she almost couldn't believe it when she saw it reflected in his eyes. He seemed almost as uncertain and uncomfortable as she. He appraised her openly, those swift eyes roving over her figure, and he raised one eyebrow, a spark of emotion flickering in his inky eyes. Did he like what he saw? Fear caused her to stumble imperceptibly, calling attention to her feet, pressed tightly together, her knees hidden under her dress, quaking in her nervousness. Her father, broad chested, heavy cheeked, full bearded, smiled and raised his hands. Wordlessly, Clopin, King of Gypsies, extended his hand for them to join hands during the vows. She looked at him hard, and then interlaced her fingers with his, looking straight ahead, never taking her eyes off her father's Bible. She would not look at her future husband. She would not.

She could never recall the exact words of her father's vows, but she must have said all that was required of her, for before she knew what was happening she heard, quite distinctly, her father shouting. "And now, you may kiss the bride!" He said brightly, laughing richly, and Florica turned to Clopin, raising one eyebrow, almost as if to say Well? But she didn't expect him to kiss her so abruptly, his lips on hers in a chaste gesture that barely allowed her to feel the texture of his lips - surprisingly soft - on hers. It was enough for her, and she resisted the urge to draw her wrist over her mouth, but instead kept her hand in his. He felt her flinch as he kissed her, and his heart sank a little more.

Tonight would not be easy.

She stepped into his caravan, noting with a rueful expression that it was decorated, most likely by her mother, for their wedding night. Embroidered sheets and beautiful blankets covered the new bed, cozy for two people but spacious for one. In a bed this size, she would lie in his arms the whole night, whether she wanted to or not. She stood quietly in her new home, waiting for her husband to finish shaking off his final well-wishers and come tell her what to do. She wished her mother would come tell her what to do. Esmerelda had warned her that it might be painful, and extremely uncomfortable the first time, and Florica had trusted her cousin's greater experience and older intuition. She was rather bashfully naïve when it came to the exchange between men and women, but Esmeralda's smoldering eyes and curvaceous figure was more than enough to give her information about it. The nerves that had been threatening to tear her in two now spilled from her eyes, shaking her shoulders in a single dry, heaving sob. She sat down hard on the bed and buried her face in her hands.

How could she do it? What was she supposed to do? She had talked with Clopin on occasion, but that had been years ago and had not given her any real insight to his character. People spoke of his kindness with his people and firmness with wrongdoers, but what would he see her as? A subject, a girl, a woman, or his wife? She shook her head and began rapidly unpinning her hair, swift fingers unraveling the thick braid that had been coiled artfully around her nape. Several smaller braids were left in her hair, but it was mostly down now, and she left it. She allowed the tears to come now, crying silently in the quiet caravan, unlacing the colorful corset that her mother had drawn tightly around her slender figure only hours before. Had it been hours? It seemed like seconds ago, she had been a girl, playing with her dolls in her bed, singing to herself in the square, bartering for food and coins with her mother, collecting money from her mother's dancing. Now she was a woman, preparing to experience her own wedding night.

The corset was folded and tossed haphazardly over his wooden chest that stood at the foot of his bed - their bed - and shimmied out of her wedding dress. In the small chest near the door, where her own meager belongings were now kept, was the shift her friend, Malia, had sewn and embroidered for her. The wedding dress was folded neatly and put in the chest, and then she pulled out the skimpy shift that she pressed against herself with horror. It was thin and revealed far more than it covered - a light, pale green color, like leaves coming out in spring, was undeniably beautiful, but Florica did no possess the deep curves of a woman as of yet, and she would only look silly and childish. She almost put on the wedding dress again, but she did not know what message this would send to her future husband. So slowly, trying to stop the querulous sobs that wracked her small body, she donned the shift and smoothed it in front of her. The light was too dim in the caravan to tell her how she looked in the looking-glass, so she sat on the bed and hugged her knees, pressing them tightly to her chest. She cried her heart out, washing her soul as she sobbed for her loss of innocence, wept because she had passed through the sunny days of childhood into the cold, austere years of womanhood.

He opened his caravan door with little noise, but he doubted his bride would have heard him if he banged the door open and marched inside with a troop of soldiers. What he saw took his breath away.

She was wearing a green shift, backless, sleeveless, hardly more than a scrap of material, with white ribbons loosely lacing the front for easy removal. Gold thread had embroidered the hem with flowers and suns, and she was clasping her knees to her chest, revealing smooth, dark calves and thighs. Black hair roiled down her back in dark, thick curls, wild and untamed tangles that made him want to feel the curls beneath his fingers. The curve of her jaw was visible in the silver of moonlight that peered myopically through the crack in the curtains, and he saw it was wet with tears. His heart ached, and he closed the door behind him with an audible snap. She jerked, her shoulders twitching, and she instantly wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks, brushing her hair away from her forehead, hastily standing and folding her arms uncomfortably across her chest. She was beautiful, and he shook his head a little. She didn't realize her beauty, still thought herself as a child. "Florica," He said quietly. "I am sorry, mon amour. I truly am."

"There is nothing to be forgiven," Florica said, her voice barely more than a breath. "Nothing at all. Neither of us are at fault."

He took a few steps nearer and shrugged off his outer tunic, tossing it carelessly over his bedpost. He looked at her for a long moment. "I will not do anything you do not want," He said firmly.

She laughed once, a humorless snort that sounded more derisive than mirthful. "They will talk," She said waspishly. "They will say 'Florica was always a strange one, and now, denying the Gypsy King his wedding night! Shame on her, for taking away a man's greatest pleasure.'" She shook her head bitterly. "Nay, your Majesty, I will not have my reputation sullied, nor yours either." She said, wielding his title like a cattle brand.

"Florica…" he began, and then stopped, running his long fingers through his hair. "Know that I did not consent to this marriage for four years. I fended off your father and the members of my courts as they demanded heirs, for four years! I do not wish this any more than you do, madam."

She turned to face him fully, and he saw that her tears had dried on her face. The white ribbons were tied perfectly, a few tails obviously askew from her quick donning of the shift. Her hair was wildly loose around her neck, plunging to her waist in rich curls. "So I am supposed to fall at your feet and worship you for not marrying me before I was seventeen? If this is your way of fetching my trust, I spit on such flattery!" She spat on the floor, those blue eyes blazing once more.

By the God above and the Demon below, she was beautiful when she was angry!

She noticed his change in expression and backed up a step, opening a rift between them. "I will not have you touch me," She warned, her voice shaking and making the threat sound far less fearsome. "Heirs or no heirs, find some other willing girl to lie on her back and bear your children. I will not be sullied by a man, nor tethered in marriage, Gypsy King or no Gypsy King!"

"Florica, enough," He sighed, massaging the back of his neck. "Please, take your things and go to your own caravan. Although, if you would like to hit me before you leave, mon chere, I would suggest you do so, for going to bed angry is not good for your health." His tone was mocking and jesting, a sarcastic glint in his dark eyes. Florica curled her lip.

"Do you think me a fool? Striking you would be punishable by a beating, and I have as little desire for whippings as I do for bedding a man!" Florica snarled. "Although, were you not my superior, I would gladly take a fist to your face without a moment's hesitation!"

"Ah, mon minette, you have the temper of a scalded kitten." Clopin said, biting back a laugh. She was so small and frightened - she threw up her feathers like a bantam cock preparing for war. "You would not best me in a fight, you must know that."

"I have no wish to best you, only to strike you," Florica said mulishly, sitting down on the bed once more with her leg crossed under her. A curtain a hair fell over her shoulder as she lowered her head and buried her face in her hands. Clopin followed her, leaning easily against the wall of his caravan, watching her. His expression softened - she looked vulnerable now, tired of posturing and preening, pretending to put on a show.

"Florica…" He sighed and joined her on the bed. Those quick, dark hands tucked her hair behind her ear in one deft movement. "I believe we can have a good marriage. It is true, I am not an easy man to get along with, but I believe that can be rectified. You are a good woman, Florica, and I have no desire to keep you chained and bound. You are as free as you like to do as you wish. I will not ruin our marriage - arranged or not, forced or not - for one night of painful lovemaking. You must know that." He said, and then paused, weighing his words. "I will wait until you are ready, mon amour."

He was concerned for her.

How interesting.

Florica was not a stupid girl, yet neither was she exceptionally brilliant. She was, however, quite sly, and she automatically checked his face for sincerity. He seemed genuine - those startlingly black eyes were warm and fraught with obvious restraint, but he seemed to mean what he said. He made a move as if to leave, and without even knowing why she did it, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. It was the first touch between them that she had instigated, and he looked down at her hand with some wonder before his gaze traveled to her face. She was crying again, but her grip on his arm was surprisingly firm and unyielding. He stayed, sitting back down on the bed, shifting his weight so he was sitting cross legged. He rested his elbows on his knees, cocked his head to the side, and waited. She licked her lips and took a breath. "Your concern is…gratifying." She said. Her voice had lost the icy bite, and he supposed this was a good sign. "But you must understand, I do not know you at all. How can our marriage be a fulfilling one for both of us, and for our people, if we know nothing of each other?"

"Ah, mon minette, you think too far in the future," He told her quietly. "I am thinking of right now. At the moment, you are tired and frightened and I am tense. I am giving you an opportunity to leave my caravan and return to your own. You have no obligation to me, Florica."

The words rolled from her lips like copper from a man's wallet - slow, hesitant, uncertain. "What if I do not wish to take your opportunity?" she said, almost to herself. He was concerned enough to give her a chance to leave, and that was reassuring. It was very reassuring, in fact, despite the hot blush that coated her cheeks at the sharpened intensity of his gaze.

"You would stay here with me, Florica? After your, may I say, quite vocal argument that you have no desire to be my wife? You are more of a pussycat than I thought, mon chere." His tone was still mocking, and she almost wanted to slap him again.

"I am not used to arguing," she snapped coldly. "My mother said you were not a cruel man. My brother assures me you will do me no harm. And you say you give me an opportunity to leave if I wish. Those are not signs of a tyrant." She said, and then ducked her head again. "But I do not know the first thing about - well -" She broke off, uncomfortable.

He was hesitant.

Curious.

She was willing.

Odd.

"Florica, I give you one last chance to gather your things and leave. Are you sure you wish to stay here, mon loup?" Clopin asked. She picked her head up and looked at him determinedly.

"No, I am not certain," she admitted. "Convince me."

He got to his feet abruptly, and went over to his chest. Rummaging through it, he withdrew a comb, and went back over to the bed. "May I unbind your hair, mon ange?" He inquired, and she looked at him with suspicion. Reluctantly, she turned and adjusted her position on the bed. He noted with growing desire that the dainty scrap of material she was wearing for a shift was also backless. Slowly, those long, quick fingers began delicately unwinding the intricate braids, leaving the unruly black curls down around her shoulders and pooling in the small of her back. The teeth of the comb slid through her hair, brushing against the spine, and she shivered. The shift did not give her any warmth whatsoever, but the sensation of the wooden comb sketching across her back was making her more heated instead of cooler. He was rather good at brushing hair, she noted with some small degree of amusement. As if reading her mind, he pulled back another section of her hair and spoke quietly to the inky mass of curls sliding through his fingers. "Esmerelda always wanted me to brush her hair when she was a child," He said quietly.

"It's not a skill a Gypsy-King usually possess, I suppose," Florica said. The comb was doing wonderful things to her hair, and she tilted her head back a little to allow him to pull back the thick fringe of hair that always got in her eyes when she worked.

"Mm? And what skills do you think a Gypsy-King should possess?" Clopin asked, his voice low and almost hypnotic. For the first time since she had known him, his movements were deliberately lazy and slow, instead of the fast, whirling motions he usually had. Florica thought for a moment.

"A Gypsy-King should be brave, to keep the strength of his clan alive. And he should be honest, and treat his people with respect. I suppose he should be tolerant of little ones and women, strong enough to help widowers and orphans in times of need. He should be merciful when necessary, but strict to wrongdoers. He should be the first in battle and the last in retreat, and he should be the last one to leave a dangerous situation of the need arises." She said, almost to herself. "Those are, I believe, the qualities that a Gypsy-King should have."

"Ah, good answer, mon minette," Clopin said with that catlike smile. "Now, tell me, what talents should a Gypsy-Queen have in her possession?" He pulled her hair aside and let the silken strands flood his fingers, the thick curls tangling themselves in his hands as he felt the smoothness of her hair. Florica's gaze was distant and dreamy, more like her usual self and not the spitting cat she was tonight.

"She should be dignified and strong, but compassionate and sweet, with patience for little ones and children of her own. She should uphold the weak, assist the poor -"

Clopin cut her off. "Now you sound like a deacon. Truly, what should a queen possess? A true answer now, from your heart."

Florica couldn't think straight - his fingers were toying with her hair, the comb laid aside on the chest, and it felt wonderful. "A queen should be like…my mother, I suppose."

Clopin laughed - a sharp, biting thing, that reminded Florica of a small, cornered animal with a shifty grin. It suited him - sort of. "Now you sound like a saint." He told her.

"My mother would make an excellent Gypsy-Queen," Florica said with a trace of regret. "She is beautiful, strong, proud, regal, merciful, intelligent, beautiful…"

"You said beautiful twice," Clopin told her. Florica started.

"She is beautiful," She said. Clopin shrugged, twisting her hair in a knot and holding it at the base of her neck with one finger. He turned his head and admired the effect.

"She is married," He said with a shrug. "And I usually find that married women lose their beauty far too quickly."

"They lose beauty for you, perhaps," Florica said stubbornly, "but my mother is still the most beautiful woman I know."

"What about the Virgin Mary?" Clopin said. "The statue of her in the square is angelic, to say the least."

"I do not know Christ's Mother personally, monsieur," Florica said indifferently. "And any statue can look beautiful. It is marble or rock - nothing more."

"I find it odd that you do not think yourself beautiful," Clopin said, his fingers brushing the side of her neck as he continued playing with her hair. She felt heat trickle down her neck and pool in her stomach in a curious fashion. She made a face at Clopin.

"I? I am not beautiful. Esmerelda is beautiful." Florica said. "I am - I do not know what I am. I suppose I am pretty, but I am not beautiful."

"Esmerelda is something special," Clopin admitted, "and her dances are captivating. But you are beautiful as well - you simply do not see it."

Florica made a noise of disapproval in her throat, and Clopin sat on the mattress behind her. "No? You do not believe me? Mm? Well, let me show you." In answer, his deft fingers stroked her back, gliding through her thick curls, nails tracing patterns on the sensitive skin. She breathed in sharply, unaware that such an innocuous part of her body could be so…delicate. His long fingers went back up her spine, and then danced across her shoulders, down her arms, and back up again, finally looping lazy circles on her collarbones. She stayed rock still, hardly daring to breath, frightened beyond belief. She had never touched anyone this way, let alone someone touch her in this fashion. Those talented fingers pulled aside her hair, letting it tumble free down one shoulder, exposing her neck for his gaze. His warm breath heated her throat, and the spark that had alit with his touches began to gather in an ember. When he spoke, his voice was in a lush whisper that stroked her neck in tune with his fingers, which were skirting away from the swells of her breasts and instead focusing on the area between her shoulder blades.

"I must warn you, mon ange, that this is your final chance to leave," He whispered. "For if I continue this, I will not hold myself responsible for my actions."

"I'll … stay." Florica said, finding her breath hard to catch. She didn't think she could wait any longer - what was he going to do? In a way, it was almost a relief when his lips pressed against the fragile line of her neck, the creamy space beneath her jaw, but it sent an electric jolt through her system. His pointed beard tickled her throat as he brushed a kiss against her earlobe. All at once, she couldn't stop herself, and the silence was broken by a exhale, one guttural sigh that contained raw vulnerability and weakness. As if sensing her cooperation, the touches became firmer and he shadowed her breasts with his quick fingers, making them feel tight and awkward despite his feather-light touches. Hot kisses trailed one side of her neck to the shelf of her jaw, and his palm was cupping her cheek. He turned her head before she knew what was happening, and she realized with shock that he was kissing her lightly, softly, gauging her response. She didn't meet his dark gaze, but tilted her head, kissing him tentatively. He deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth gently, stealing the velvet between her lips like a thief in the night.

He broke away again and met her eyes, this time making sure of their contact. She knew what he was trying to see - was she ready? She asked herself the same question. She had no idea.

But there were worse ways to start a marriage.

And she enjoyed his kisses.

As if sensing this, he pushed her backwards on the bed, tangling his fingers once more in her hair. He engaged her in a plundering kiss, stroking the fire gathering in her belly. His fingers unlaced the ribbons deftly, whisking away the thin, flimsy shift, parting the material and allowing one hand to rove over her soft, cinnamon colored skin. His mouth stifled her gasp as he brushed his thumb over her beaded nipple, grasping the pebbled nub between his fingers and applying pressure, sending little ripples of pleasure down her spine. His mouth broke away from hers again and he moved his sighs southward, nipping lightly at her throat and collarbones, holding her in place with the steady weight of his body. When his lips closed over her nipple, she nearly lost her mind there and then. Completely unaware what she was doing, she pulled him closer, hands sliding through his hair and making him purr with satisfaction. His talented fingers found her hot, slick core, and she made several shameful noises into the night as he coaxed her effortlessly onwards.

The fire that had once been a spark was now an inferno, a lioness roaring for release in her chest. Everything ached - her breasts tightened, her legs tightened around his swift fingers, and she felt the dam shattering slowly, piece by piece. It was though he were snapping the threads of her mind with a dull knife, and then suddenly everything exploded as a river rushed to full strength, her indistinguishable cry became an inarticulate call of his name, the waterfall pouring over her as she succumbed to her climax. She forgot everything - her name, who she was, where she was, the fact that the man lying next to her was wearing a very smug expression, everything. It was lost in a maelstrom of sensations and pleasure, driving her nearly to insanity with his stroking fingers and skillful touches. When the final throes of her climax slowed, she realized that the breathy whimpers were coming from her, and she swallowed raggedly to try and stop them. She rolled to one side and buried her face in his chest, feeling his laugh rumble through her. "Ah, see now, mon loup, you are not such a wolf anymore, eh? I am not a wicked man." He said.

"Yes…yes…you are," She said, but without any real conviction. She realized that her fingers were gripping his tunic, and she managed - with a great effort - to push herself up on one elbow. "You're still dressed." She said, sounding childish.

"A situation I can remedy," He said silkily, and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. "Get under the quilts, mon minette - I see that your fur is bristling." She swiped at him (In his defense, it was in a rather cat-like fashion) and he laughed again. His tunic was pulled off and tossed aside, and his leggings joined them. Before she knew it, he was under the blankets with her, kissing her again in that thieving, plundering, fashion. It was fierce now, a wild sort of kissing that made the recently dimmed sparks in her womb suddenly waft into a bright flare once more. He nipped her bottom lip and then that mischievous smile was taunting her. "Ah, minette, relax," He whispered. "I am not going anywhere. You are very eager all of a sudden." She growled - actually growled - and pulled him in for another kiss, arms sliding beneath his as she pressed her breasts against his firm chest. His hands trailed down her sides, finding once more the shifting brunette curls that teased his fingers. When she was almost at her peak again, he entered her, slowly, achingly slowly, and she froze.

The feeling was bizarre and alien, but not painful. It was slippery and there was more heat, and she felt the sparks lighting in her chest again. Her nails dug into his back. "Go on," she whispered. "You're not hurting me." She arched against him, plunging in liquid heat to the hilt. For a moment, he just stopped. There were no coherent words to the agonizing sweetness of being inside her. But already she was grasping at him to move, to end the unendurable ache that was snapping in her stomach. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and his teeth closed over the soft patch of flesh, suckling, biting, sucking hard, leaving a hickey that would be seen tomorrow morning. He felt a wave of possessiveness throw over him - she was his. His wife. She wasn't a girl, a woman, a child, a subject. She was his wife. She was a Queen.

His Queen.

A/N: Sorry to end it so abruptly! But my muse dried up and decided to go on vacation, so that's all yer getting, folks! Anyway, I realize this is a slow fandom and I only have a couple of people who Author Alerted me, but I'd love it if you reviewed! Clopin is such an underrated character - he needs MORE LOVE! Anyway, here are the translations for the French I used in this chapter:

Mon chere: My dear

Mon ange: my angel

Mon minette: my pussycat

Mon loup: my wolf