Do you know that feeling when you are with the one you love? The feeling that you are whole and safe in their arms, knowing that they are never going to let you go? Imagine that feeling and amplify it, and you can imagine how I feel right now—Francis's arms around me and mine around him, our naked bodies slick with sweat, together as one.
"I love you," I gasp. I hide my face in his shoulder, gripping his forearms for support, as he rhythmically thrusts into me. Francis's hands roam my bare back as he grunts in time to his punctuated movements. I cup his face in my hands and I kiss him hard, my legs wrapped around his waist. Out of all the times we've made love, it never ceases to amaze me how our bodies just fit together—like two puzzle pieces falling together. It feels natural, almost second nature to feel him inside me, to feel him love me with his hands and mouth.
Francis pushes me back onto the bed, pressing his weight down upon me as he plants searing hot kisses up my body, starting at my belly. It has been two months since our coronation; France has calmed since Henri and Catherine's deaths, just as we are truly beginning to adjust to our new roles as the new king and queen. Things have been relatively calm, although we both are on alert for any word on the Bourbon brothers – as well as investigating who is threatening him with the knowledge of his murder of Henri. The world now knows that I carry Francis's child—and I am only just now beginning to show, as a small bulge protrudes from my abdomen. Francis gently kisses my small bump, nuzzling gently and playfully with the baby that grows inside me. His lips graze my arm as I rake a hand through his soft curls before our lips come together once again. He kisses me intensely and thoroughly, demanding more. I oblige, not caring that I'm at a loss for breath. I surge forward, rolling atop of my husband, not once breaking our kiss as my hair falls in a curtain around us.
"My god, Mary," Francis rasps. I smile, pressing our foreheads together as I steadily rock my hips against his. "You're going to be my ruin, I swear to god." He grabs my face and kisses me passionately, pulling me closer to him along his length as I ride him. I let out a gasp, painful pleasure surging through me. I hold Francis's face for support, shuddering and whimpering in ecstasy.
"F-Francis," I gasp, struggling to articulate my words. "OH!" I relax into him as I finally find my tempo, grinding and rolling into him. Francis's hand pushes through my hair, while the other wraps around my naked back, exploring the familiar territory. I tear my lips away, a sigh falling from my lips as hot pleasure dances through me. I pull myself upright, planting my hands on his chest for support, arching my back. My head falls backwards as our erotic tempo gradually rebuilds itself. Francis lazily cups my breast in his hand, sliding down my body and to the globe of my ass. His head falls back onto the pillow and he closes his eyes, groaning as I grind our hips together. Pressure rises inside of me in my core the way a fire is kindled—beginning as a spark before bursting into flames. Francis rises forward, taking me in his arms, and rolls swiftly, thrusting vigorously into me.
"You're fucking mine!" he growls before taking my mouth under his in a searing, possessive kiss. Our tongues collide, pushing and pulling against each other like a tide of the ocean. I am lost in the current of passion and ecstasy. No, not lost—I am drowning, and I don't want to swim. My leg curls around his waist, our skin just barely brushing together. The air between is electric; oxygen leaves me as Francis's knuckle grazes my thigh. I hold his face in my hands, guiding his lips to my neck. My husband indulges, his lips leaving a hot trail of burning embers in their wake, furtherly stoking the fires of our passion.
"Yours," I breathe, my voice thick. "Oh my—oh, oh, oh, OHHH!" My back bows as liquid heat floods from my core. I dig my heels into his back, driving into him harder and harder, as my body rises to meet his. My fingers move of their own accord from his back to his shoulders, gripping tightly. I thread one hand through the lush curls on the back of his neck, keeping the other wrapped around him for support. Francis moves against me, filling me with himself. Our eyes lock on one another for several long moments before he kisses me slowly, taking the back of my head in one hand to tenderly hold my face still.
"Mary," he grunts. "Oh god, Mary!" His hips rocking against mine, he gently takes both of my hands and interweaves our fingers together. I gasp and moan and shudder in pleasure as his thrusts amplify my pleasure. His cock plunges into me so deeply and intensely that my loins throb painfully, but I don't care. I relish it. I relish the sensation of his lovemaking. Francis dips his head down, his lips seeking mine feverishly. Our moans, sighs, growls and whimpers harmonize together in a deliciously erotic sound, resonating loudly off our bedroom walls.
"Francis!" I rasp. "Oh my…fuck!" I'm breathless as Francis takes his hands from mine, his mouth journeying down my body. He sucks and kisses and bites at my bare skin, not daring to leave any part of me unravished. Everything rises back within me again—pressure, pleasure, pain—and I suddenly feel like I'm going to explode. Searing kisses trail up my inner thigh, just above my clit. Francis's eyes meet mine knowingly. My husband—he knows just how to fulfill my every need and he takes his time doing so. I gasp, my back arching off the bed, as his teeth take my little nub and suck softly. My hips jerk automatically up under his mouth, my palms slamming into the sheets and my fingers curling around the soft material.
"More…oh god, I need more." I close my eyes tightly, letting my head fall back onto a soft pillow. I growl and plead as Francis's tongue dances across my most intimate of places, before delving into my heated confines. "More…more…more!" My hips buck wildly and Francis firmly grabs my waist, securing it to the mattress as he continues to make love to me with his tongue. I shake under him, every sensitive spot that Francis has touched set afire. My mouth opens wordlessly and a strangled moan falls from my lips. I am so lost in my euphoric haze that I am surprised when the sensation brought about by his tongue ceases, and his lips cover mine in a loving kiss. I lace my arms around him, my fingers threading in his hair.
"I love being inside you," Francis pants. He kisses me again, tugging on my lower lip as he steadily thrusts into me. I mewl and purr in pleasure, my fingernails clawing at his torso. I arch my back as I orgasm and I scream in pleasure. The world spins and I am unable to think of anything else but the searing pleasure Francis gives me. Slowly, he takes my arms and lifts them above my head, effectively pinning me to the bed. Our fingers lace together as he draws my arms up, and my back arches, my breasts brushing into his chest as his hips roll against me in a sensual rhythm. I wrap my legs around his waist to draw him closer to me, moaning his name as he kisses me. I shudder and wither beneath him and he cries out my name as he explodes, pouring himself into me.
"Francis!" I scream rapturously. Francis's hips snap against me as he thrusts, slow and hard. My name falls from his lips like a prayer recited over and over again. I press the heel of my foot into his back, leveraging myself so I can meet his languid, strong thrusts with my own. We give and take from each other, pushing and pulling like a tide of the ocean. I pull myself upward, straddling his waist. His hands find my lower back as he buries his face in my neck, his lips seeking my skin. I curl my arms around his neck, shuddering at the sensation of his lips on my naked flesh. His hand gropes the curve of my ass as I shift, placing some weight on my knees as I lift myself off him halfway. I sink myself down back onto his length slowly, my fingers forming knots in his hair, and I shiver in ecstasy. Feverishly, my lips seek his as I pick up the pace of my rhythm. Francis strokes my cheek, his thumb grazing along my jawline, and I glance sideways at his hand, melting into his touch.
"You're so beautiful," he says, his voice just barely above a whisper and thick with desire. "You are so beautiful it breaks my heart." Much to my embarrassment, tears form in my eyes at these words. He tucks my hair behind my ear and away from my forehead before he draws me closer into another kiss, our lips dancing together in an erotic tango. Our kisses are like ice and fire, heaven and hell—two great, cosmic sources colliding together in an earth-shattering duel. I cry out as my orgasm rises, my breaths harsh, as Francis moves his hips against me. I pull at his hair, gathering myself closer to him, as I see stars.
"Francis—oh, oh…OHHHH. Francis! Francis! Francis!"
"Cum for me, baby," he growls in my ear. "I want to see you cum." The flames that burn and flicker in my core turn into a feral wildfire as he plunges deeper into me, brushing against the spot that has never failed to get me off during our love sessions.
"Fuck, Francis!" I rasp. My orgasm washes over me in a wave, my hips thrusting automatically, as I ride out the wave of pleasure and desire. Francis is entranced as he pulls himself back, watching as I shatter. My head falls back as I moan; goosebumps rise as my husband's hands splay across my bare thighs, roaming my flesh, before finding my back. His fingertips dig into me as he pushes me back onto the bed, pulling out of me before he delivers one last powerful thrust, releasing himself inside me. We scream in unison, crying out each other's names, before Francis slides out of me. I rest in his arms, our bodies wrapped around each other under the sheets.
"You know, we've never really talked about what to name the baby," I say, propping myself upon my elbow. "It's still a bit early for an ultrasound, but…our little prince should have his name, don't you think?" I rub my nose against his, before I give him a kiss.
"What if we're having a princess instead?" Francis laughs. "Or both?"
"Come on now, don't get greedy!" I tease him, playfully nudging him in the ribs. The thought of carrying twins sends my heart racing with excitement at the possibility. "I don't know why, but I've always imagined that it's a girl…a little Anne, maybe?"
"Anne de Valois." My husband articulates the name slowly, tasting it. "I'd like to think that she would look like you, that she would resemble her mother so much that it would make my heart break."
"She would have your eyes, too," I add, tracing a bite mark on his shoulder with my finger. Francis's skin is adorned in love bites, and I know that he too has left his marks on me. "She would be a true Valois…Anne Catherine de Valois." Francis's eyes shimmer with raw emotion as he caresses my face. "What's wrong?" I ask softly.
"Nothing's wrong," he assures me. "I'm just…I love you, you know that?" He gives a shake of his head and chuckles. The sound is bittersweet. "It's just that…I really miss her sometimes. My mother." I reach for his hand, covering it in mine. The wound of losing his mother has never really seemed to truly heal. Francis rarely speaks of her nowadays. He rarely speaks of his brother, nor of his parents. I don't know if those wounds will ever heal, or if the trauma of killing Henri will ever leave him. I know that Tomas has never seemed to leave me.
"I know you do," I whisper, squeezing gently.
"She should be here," says Francis. He smiles sadly. "Remember after you told me you were pregnant, she barged in on us without so much as batting an eye?"
"How could I forget? She was ecstatic about the prospect of becoming a grandmother," I say. My heart clenches and I rapidly blink back tears. "She would be proud of you, if she were still here," I murmur.
"She would, wouldn't she?"
"Yes, she would," I say. "You're a great king, a wonderful husband, and you're going to make an amazing father." Our foreheads touch and I lean forward, lazily kissing my husband. "I love you."
"I love you too."
"You are in the presence of Francis of the House of Valois, the Second of His Name, and Mary of the House of Stuart, the First of Her Name, by the Grace of God, King and Queen of France." As we sit upon our thrones, I vaguely wonder what the common people are concerned about now. Relations between Catholics and Protestants have been relatively tense; there have been rumors of how the religious gang who call themselves the Darkness have reappeared throughout France, murdering and terrorizing innocents. There has been no word on Louis and Antoine de Bourbon, but I know that they are still out there. I place a hand protectively over the swell of my belly. Nobody is going to touch my baby, I vow fiercely.
"James of the House of Stuart!" the herald announces as my brother steps into the room. I can't help but remember my mother's warning. Your brother is grabbing for the crown even as we speak. I can't believe it. James wouldn't do such a thing. He's my brother.
"James! What're you doing here?" I exclaim.
"Hello to you too, little sister," he says warmly. "I'm going to be an uncle, I hear? Come on down from that throne of yours, Mary. I want to look at you." I oblige, making my way down the steps. "It's been so long. Last I saw you, you were on your way to the convent. Womanhood becomes you." I smile at him.
"It's been so long," I say.
"That it has," James agrees. "Mary, can we speak in private for a moment? I'm sorry, but I didn't come here just to socialize with you."
"Yes, of course!" My brother takes me by the arm, leading me out of the throne room hurriedly. The entire time, I feel Francis's eyes piercing me. "James, what the hell is going on?" I demand as soon as we are out of my husband's earshot. "What is so important that my own husband can't know about it?"
"It's about Scotland, Mary," he hisses, jerking me aside. On reflex, I pull myself out of his grip. I scowl at him, but I don't make any move to leave.
"What about Scotland?" I ask, my concern spiking. "Has Mother…?"
"The people are beginning to revolt against the queen regent," my brother explains tersely. "They need their queen, not the queen's mother. England has been gathering their military to make some kind of attack. I don't know if it's on France or Scotland, but either way, Scotland needs her queen. You need to come home."
"James, France's forces are depleted," I say slowly. "While Francis and I were on our honeymoon, Henri took it upon himself to retake Calais. France won, but…she doesn't have the strength for another battle."
"But Scotland does, Mary," James reminds me. "Mother's been gathering troops of her own—but her power is dwindling. The people need their queen."
"If the English are going to attack, don't you think Francis should know about it?" I challenge.
"Not until we know for certain where it is they're going to strike," he points out, "but it doesn't matter. Mary, you need to come home. I'll arrange for a private jet to take us to Scotland by tonight."
"Thank you, James."
"He wants you to return to Scotland?" Francis asks incredulously. I hurry about our room, stuffing my belongings in my suitcases. "Mary, you just can't leave on a whim like this."
"A whim?" I repeat crossly. "A whim? Are you seriously suggesting that I'm just lightheartedly making this decision for my country? And also, by extension, your country as well?" I look up at him, the first flames of fury beginning to burn.
"It's not that!" he insists.
"Then, what is it?" I demand. "What the hell is it? You forget yourself, Francis. I may be the Queen of France, but I am also Scotland's queen. I have been Scotland's queen ever since I was a baby."
"I…I don't trust your brother," says Francis slowly. "Why? Why now? Why does he want you to return to Scotland now of all times?"
"Things in Scotland are tense," I say shortly. "My mother is in a precarious position and there is a chance that one of our countries—either France or Scotland—may be attacked by England, so to answer your question, that is why I'm going." I brush past him, crossing the room as I zip my luggage up. "I am Mary, Queen of Scots, Francis. Scotland's welfare will always be of utmost concern to me. As you are now the King of France, I was hoping maybe you would understand that."
"You don't get it, do you?" he presses. "It's been decades since you last saw James. You don't know him at all. You think you do, but you don't."
"And what, you know my brother better?" I retort. Francis approaches me, taking my hands in his.
"I'm just trying to protect you," he tells me. "You're pregnant with our child. I don't want anything to happen to you." Gently, he cups my cheek in his palm. I relax into his touch but for a few moments before I reach for his hand and put it down.
"Yes, our child," I say coldly. "Your heir. For France. This child will be Scotland's heir, too, or did you also forget that? Scotland and I are one and the same, Francis."
"Mary—"
"My country and I are one and the same!" I hiss. "Forget that and you've forgotten who I am. I don't need to hear any more about this. Get out." Francis doesn't need to be told twice. I watch him leave, my anger pumping hotly through my veins.
I'm going to Scotland, and I'll be damned if I let anyone stop me.