She enters the room, lit only by the candlelight. It was her last night in France, for she had been commanded to return home, back to England. Anne was given the right to stay a little longer, and although it didn't seem fair, she made no remarks about it.
Ever since she told him she would be leaving, he had acted more distant and cold towards her. She never complained. Deep inside, she knew she was nothing but his mistress, one among many. But nevertheless she would have liked him to be warm and gallant as ever.
She was surprised with the invitation. It was late at night, but nonetheless she obeyed his request and followed the pageant through the endless halls of the palace, until they stopped in front of the King's bedchamber.
- Here we are, Mademoiselle Boleyn - the pageant bows before opening the door. She smiles at the young boy and steps forward, hearing the sound of the door being closed behind her. Mary took a deep breath, and giggled inwardly. She had done that many times, and yet she was as nervous as if it was her first. She follows the trail of faint light which comes from the nearest door and leads her to a glorious vision.
He is lying in the centre of the crimson bed, completely naked, with the candlelight warming his tanned skin. His brown curls were slightly disheveled, his lips forming the irresistible smile that for which so many woman before her fallen, boyish but at the same time extremely seductive, giving him a look of naivety while his eyes examined her with the accuracy of a true connoisseur.
- Mary Boleyn - his smooth voice sent shivers down her spine. - Have you come to bid me farewell?
Mary didn't have the heart to tell Francis that he had been the one to call her. He liked to play games, to seduce and be seduced. So she played along.
- Indeed, I have Your Majesty. Tomorrow I shall leave your country and go back to my father's country.
- Your father's country? - he repeated. - You mean it is not your own?
- I would have been happier if he commanded me to stay - Mary admitted.
- What if I commanded you to stay? - Francis picked up a grape from the bowl next to him and started to slowly, gently suck on it. Mary's heartbeat increased.
- I guess you would have to discuss that matter with my father, Majesty - she said cautiously. - Which, I fear, won't be possible. It's too late, we must leave tomorrow morning.
He laughed, a warm, seductive laugh which made her smile shyly.
- Nothing is impossible for me, I am the King of France.
- If your Majesty wants me to stay, then I shall obey - she said wholeheartedly. - But wouldn't people suspect if you personally commanded one of your wife's maids to stay in France, contrarily to her family wishes?
- You are right - Francis muttered. - I don't have the heart to inflict that on my wife.
Mary sighed inwardly. Francis had many, many mistresses and also a few bastard sons and daughters, but still he loved his wife. He was always very discreet with his affairs, although she was fully aware of them. But she forced a smile when he lended her a hand.
- Come here.
She crawled to the bed next to him, but he didn't gave her permission to lie beside him. Instead, he stretched his legs and made her lie on his knees, their bodies in a T shape. Then he lowered his head to claim her mouth, lustfully, passionately, their tongues battling while her hands locked themselves in his brown curls. He brought the fruit bowl closer to them and picked a raspberry from it, putting it in her lips, then another one between her breasts and many others hidden in strategic points of her body. Then, very, very slowly, he reached for another bowl. It contained a brown liquid, and Mary was immediately turned on by its smell. Spicy chocolate. Francis then started to pour thin lines of chocolate all over her, from her neck to her nipples, then her legs, until she moaned in surprise when he poured it on her womanhood.
- Francis... please...
He smirked.
- Take it easy, chérie, I must now clean up the mess I have made - and with that he changed his position in bed, positioning himself beside her and starting to lick off the chocolate and bite the fruit off her body. The wet caress of his tongue, along with the gentle bites of his teeth made Mary pant heavily. She knew everyone, including him, called her a mare, a whore and even worse things, but she didn't care, as long as he kissed her and caressed her as he was doing right then. Bedding Francis was a heavenly experience: they never had a dull moment together.
Her line of thought was interrupted by his fingers going in and out of her, joined by the pace of his demanding tongue in the center of her pleasure. Mary cried in sheer delight, pulling his hair and moving her hips inconsciously against his mouth. But, precisely when she was on the verge of collapsing into a million pieces, he stopped with a devilish smile. She groaned in frustration, which made him chuckle.
- What is it, Mary?
- Please... please... - was all she could moan.
- Please what?
- Possess me - she whispered, and that was music for Francis' ears. He made her kneel in front of him, and lay on her knees, like a little dog in four legs.
- Your wish is now my command - he whispered on her neck, entering her in the meantime. Mary gasped for air and closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the sensations she was feeling, and it only became more unbearable when he started to thrust deeper and faster within her, putting one hand on her hips and the other pulling her hair behind. The only sounds that could be heard were the ones of their bodies colliding, his gasps of pleasure, her moans of delight, the creaking sound of the bed beneath her bodies. It didn't take long for her to come, followed by Francis a few seconds after.
That night, contrarily to many other nights, they actually slept together, falling asleep in each other's arms. Next morning, they say goodbye with a last kiss and a ruby ring, which Francis gives her as a memory of their lustful nights. When his horse is reaching the exit gate of the palace, Mary dares to look behind. He is there, standing at the window, now fully dressed. She bows her head and he answers in the same manner.
Nine months later, Philip William Carey was born, in England, from Mary Boleyn and her newlywed husband William Carey. Although he was born a premature, the doctors were amazed by his strength and health. Only Mary and her parents knew of the child's true parentage, and she promised to take her secret to the grave.