"Come in," Mary responded automatically to the knock on her chamber door.

She heard the creak of It swinging open, followed by footsteps, and more creaks as it closed. The visitor wasn't announced. Thinking it strange, she tore her eyes from the several important documents that littered her desk.

Her breath caught at the sight of reckless curls and piercing eyes.

She swallowed hard.

"Francis."

Her voice broke on the word, as did any resolve she had managed to maintain since his and his family's arrival in Portugal. She watched as a handful of emotions played across his fair features, landing on one that she couldn't quite identify. Had she been gone so long that she could no longer read him?

"My god, Mary."

He crossed the room in few steps and his hands, large and warm, much larger and warmer than she seemed to remember, rested on her cheeks as he pulled her face to his, pressing their lips together. She melted against him, allowing herself to slip back into the old habit of grabbing his waist and pulling him closer.

They became nothing more than a mass of tongues and lips, bodies and desires. Each kiss, each touch, erasing more and more of the last four years. The wedding. Tomas. Scotland. France. It all disappeared.

Until the edge of the mattress struck the back of Mary's knee, much lower than the one back at French court would have done, and the queen was rushed back to her gripping reality.

She removed her lips from his, letting her head rest lightly on his shoulder. The action didn't faze the prince. He simply moved his lips to her neck, covering every inch of exposed skin with kisses, each more pressing and more confident than the last.

"I'm married," Mary hissed as her fingers tangle in the mass of curls at the base of his neck.

"You're married," he repeated back, barely taking more than a moment away from kissing her to acknowledge the fact.

"It doesn't bother you?"

Francis retreated slightly from his work on her skin, instead resting his forehead against hers and peering into her eyes. "Does it bother you?"

Her mind immediately went at the day of her consummation. Tomas, all brawn and overbearing energy, was atop her for what felt like hours. His kisses were frank. His hands were rushed. It was at that moment that she knew that sex would grow to be a tedious task for her. It would never be like she thought it would be, would never be what she had dreamed about. And boy had she dreamed about it. She remembered one of her first nights back at court. Her and her ladies had (as she had chosen to remember it) stumbled upon the consummation of Francis' sister, Elizabeth. Not only had it been awkward and terrible to watch, but it also intrigued her. It was several weeks before Mary was able to handle her new thoughts and feelings, and she was once again able to look at her engagement to Francis for what it was: a political agreement. By this time England was invading Scotland and Francis made the bold move of kissing her before telling her to marry Tomas. This started a whole new series of thoughts, ones that followed her to Portugal. Sex wasn't business. It was body against body. Skin against skin. Francis against her.

Francis against her. She had spent more than one night lying in bed beside her husband, having just had intercourse, and thought about it, thought about him.

And now here he was, in her arms, in her room. What was she waiting for?

She didn't answer him with words. She just pressed her lips to his once again, dropping her hands and tucking up underneath his shirt, letting them rest against the bare skin just above the waist of his pants.