Idolatrous Pursuits

"I've been giving Count Nardin's predicament some thought," Mary said after they had settled themselves into bed.

Francis hadn't meant to laugh, but one squeezed out, prompting a curious look from Mary. "You mean his inability to find a wife?" Francis said. "Don't you think it's just a lack of effort?"

"I don't know. Though I suppose sometimes bookish men have a difficult time finding someone whom they can match wits against, particularly when a different language or culture is involved."

Never mind that "bookish" wasn't a word Francis felt accurately applied to Philipe Nardin, just because he was well-read. "You believe his story about Roman women, then?"

"Of course. That's hardly the sort of thing one would need to lie about. He's kind and well-spoken, his father is extremely rich, and he isn't bad-looking." Indeed, the way Mary said it, it was clear she found him quite the opposite of bad-looking. "All he needs is the right type of woman to spark a genuine connection. Someone who could tickle his particular mind, I suppose."

Francis desperately wanted to tell her why he didn't think a woman's tickle was Philipe's particular problem, if only because it didn't seem right to let Mary go on ignorant of what was such common knowledge to him.

But then he would have to explain how he knew such a thing about the count that men of different persuasions rarely ever spoke of openly to each other—let alone when they were supposed to be such recent acquaintances. And then, of course, Mary would ask how he could be sure, because Francis would have to assure her at least once that he was certain of it, so really it was better all around, he decided, if he just bit down on that urge to honesty.

Mary turned to him suddenly. "We should invite him to First Light."

"Absolutely not!"

"Why not?" She seemed genuinely surprised by Francis's outburst, even if it was accompanied by a grin. "It seems to me the perfect opportunity for him to meet eligible young ladies he otherwise might never have occasion to cross paths with. Not to mention, it would be a refreshing change of pace to have guests at court whose ambitions are as harmlessly down-to-earth as finding a bride."

"Right. Because our being wed was an entirely down-to-earth affair. . . ."

"I know, I know." Mary rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. "But we're something of a unique case, don't you think? At least the count would be coming to us as a blank slate. How difficult could it possibly be to find a young lady at court who's agreeable to him?"

That depended very much on one's definition of "agreeable," Francis thought. But he conceded the point that if Philipe cared that much about finding a bride, he could stand to put in a bit more effort himself. "Honestly? I think you would be wasting your time trying to play match-maker for that man.

"But let's discuss this particular matter later, shall we? Personally, I don't want to waste one more thought on Philipe Nardin tonight."

The last was muttered against Mary's throat, in languid kisses tracing their way along the curve of her jaw. Francis's arm encircled her waist. His teeth caught the lobe of her ear, promising all sorts of things Francis would much rather turn his attentions to, and the hardness pressing against Mary's hip was only further proof of that.

She warmed to it, laughing lightly. How she would have loved to help him with his problem, but "I can't, Francis. I wish I could, but . . ."

"I know, I know," he murmured, undaunted, as his kisses tiptoed their way down to the hollow of her throat, the bumps of her collarbone and over the thin material of her nightgown. To the peak of her breast, making her moan low and the nipple rise, eager to meet his lips. "But that doesn't mean I can't adore you just the same."

Mary would have laughed at Francis's boyish ardor, if his mouth didn't seem so serious about proving his words. "By all means, adore away," she said toward the ceiling, her desire stirring to the flat of his hand, smoothing up her thigh and pulling the nightgown with it.

Francis did love her body, and he told Mary so, as though the possessiveness of his touch might somehow not be enough to convince her of that. What he let his wandering hands and kisses say for him was how utterly he adored the weight of her breasts, the curve of her waist. The soft, rolling plain of her bare stomach when it was stretched out beneath him, rising gently with each breath. She would find him silly if he compared it to a golden field, roll her eyes and say he had nothing but babies on the brain; but to him it was an apt analogy, with or without the thought of children.

He could fall down and worship her like a fertility goddess of old. For all he belittled paganism, with its brutal rituals and superstition, one facet of that religion Francis understood quite well was the instinct to adore the feminine figure. And Mary had in spades what he could never hope to find in any Cybele or Eastre.

Nor was a shapeless Virgin, beyond any man's touch, at all what he desired. This Mary was all his, and Francis could not help the feeling that she had been made for him. Made just for his hands and lips to worship. For all the newness this adult, womanly body of hers still possessed for him, it was at the same time a nostalgic place: a place where Francis could lose himself for hours, for days, and never want to leave.

But though the tickle of his whiskers against her belly made her shiver with delight, Mary resisted his protestations of perfection. "You love it even when it's swollen?"

"You aren't swollen," Francis insisted, his words a warm breeze filling the dip of her navel. At least, if she felt that way, he couldn't tell. "But even if you were, yes, I would love your body just the same. I'd love it if it were big and round as a pumpkin." The nightshirt out of the way, bunched in his fist just beneath her breasts, he could press his lips directly to her skin, feel the heat of her radiate through him, the resonant flutter of desire stirring in her belly. "Who knows. With any luck, maybe I'll get a chance to before too long."

"All right, that's quite enough of that." It took quite a bit of will power on her part, but Mary managed to push him away, and pull the nightgown back down over herself. "I appreciate your efforts, Francis, but it isn't going to happen tonight, I'm afraid. Just be patient a couple days more?" she said as she smoothed a lock of hair back from his eyes.

He sighed, and sidled up beside her. His fingers, however, were more reluctant to leave, as they walked up the valley between her breasts. "If you want my opinion, it should be forbidden for wives to bleed while on their honeymoons."

"Not that I don't agree with you, but I don't think you'd have much luck making that an official edict."

She made up for her lack of interest in the ardor of her kiss, however, when he laid his mouth on hers. So it came as a bit of a disappointment when Francis pulled away from it a moment later. "Where are you going now?"

"To take care of things myself. This isn't the first time I've found myself at the mercy of my longing for you, with only my right hand to free me from it."

He said so with such a grin of boyish mischief on his lips, and in such a needlessly dramatic manner, that Mary found herself quite unable to resist his charm. She grabbed at his arm before he could get too far, and, throwing him off his balance, pulled him back to the bed. "Oh, don't be silly, Francis."

"But I won't get any rest—"

"Then let me take care of your problem for you. I want to do it," she said before the protest could quite leave his parted lips. "You're always far too eager to kiss me down there, and I'm afraid I don't return the favor nearly enough."

"It isn't about returning favors—" Francis began to say, but Mary silenced him with her mouth against his. "I know that," she said against his parted lips, then pulled back enough to look him square in the eyes. "But if only one of us is going to get some relief tonight, it might as well be you. And I want to be the one to get you there."

As she was saying so, her hand slipped beneath the hem of Francis's nightshirt, searching out the source of his frustration. He sighed when her fingers wrapped around his waxing erection, and captured her mouth again, so eager for it his teeth pinched the sensitive nerves of her lips. But his tongue was there a moment later to soothe the sting. She slid her hands up over his sides until Francis finally got the hint and pulled off his nightshirt. He tried to draw her in for another kiss, but Mary pushed him back against the mattress, her hand heavy against the center of his bare chest.

When she replaced it with her lips, she erased any thought of further protest from Francis's mind. He wasn't the only one who adored every inch of his beloved; and even if Mary was rather tired, and a bit achy, feeling Francis tremble beneath her mouth—the goosebumps awakened by the casual brush of her braided hair against his skin, and the sudden shallowness of his breathing—redoubled her own desire for him within her. Heat pooled between her legs, and Mary cursed that there was little she could do to alleviate it. Only clench those tender muscles, and relish the constant tingling, like an ascetic barred by vows from seeking release.

Francis, too, was being oh so patient. His cock lay heavy and eager against his belly, but he did not rush her. He let Mary press achingly slow kisses down its length, with only the slightest rolling of his hips to urge her, futilely, faster. He breathed her name; it became a mantra on his tongue so that Mary couldn't quite be sure if he was encouraging her or praying.

In truth, for Francis it was a little of both, but not for the reason Mary might have been expecting. He thrilled when she took him into her mouth. He loved that she was so eager to receive him.

But despite his affection for her, and the pleasure that she did give him, he could not escape the feeling that there was something missing. And surely there was a special place in Hell for husbands who thought their wives' oral ministrations were lacking, he thought. At least it filled him with enough guilt to be a kind of hell. Mary tried so earnestly to please him, that much was evident. But when she took hold of him, her grip remained hesitant, as though she feared she might break him. Her lips were enthusiastic enough, Francis supposed, but she didn't seem to know what to do with her tongue, or just where to concentrate her efforts.

And how could he honestly expect her to, Francis thought with a sigh that thankfully Mary misinterpreted. She didn't have a cock herself, unlike Philipe. She couldn't be expected to just pick one up and know how to use it. For which Francis partly blamed his upbringing. Thus far, he hadn't exactly been a useful instructor to her either. Not nearly as useful as she had been in educating him on the instrument that was her body, with constructive criticism when his efforts fell flat, and oh so colorful exclamations of encouragement when they didn't. His own silence would have to end, Francis decided with a sudden desperation, or it would be forever before he climaxed.

But how he hated being on the receiving end of that look Mary gave him when he was critical of the way she did things. He would have to face it, he supposed, or else get used to imagining what it had felt like to have another man's mouth on him.

And admit that Philipe Nardin had shaken his expectations, raised them to levels Francis could not hope to reach with a woman. And that was unacceptable.

"God, I want you, Mary. I want to feel you inside me."

Mary released him just enough to be able to mutter "What was that?" against his flesh.

And Francis could hardly believe he had uttered those words himself. His face was hot with his embarrassment, his throat dry when he swallowed. But he had made up his mind. He pressed on. "I said, I want you inside me."

Mary stiffened then, and sat up. Brows knit as she turned to face him. "Whatever put that idea in your head?"

"Er, well, you know how stablehands are," he bluffed. "I overheard one bragging how he was with a woman who used her finger inside him, and that it was actually quite enjoyable."

It wasn't exactly a lie, Francis thought, even if that wasn't what or who had put the idea in his head. He had heard something along those lines in the stables, albeit as a crude rumor that he and Bash had laughed and wondered at as boys. It wasn't as though Mary was going to demand when he had heard it.

"I just thought," he tried when Mary said nothing, deep in consideration, "that we might try something a little different, is all. Something a little more adventurous. After all, isn't the best time to try something new while we're on our honeymoon? Before we return to court, where we'll have so much more to distract and tire us? Not to mention, where people could talk. . . ."

He placed one hand on her arm, giving it a little squeeze. But the smile Francis put on to assure her turned nervous and fell altogether when Mary met his eyes again.

"I've offended you, haven't I?" He thought for sure her expression was one of horror that he would even suggest such a thing. Pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes, he fell back on the pillows with a groan. "Forget it. I shouldn't have said it. I knew you'd find the idea repulsive—"

"When did I ever say I thought it was repulsive?"

Francis lowered his hands, and was a bit surprised to see a bewildered bit of a smile on Mary's lips rather than the scowl of disapproval he had expected. "I don't really understand it either," she said, "it certainly doesn't sound as though it would be pleasurable. But if it's what you want, Francis," she straightened, "I think we should try it."

"Really?" Should he be expecting a catch?

"Of course," Mary said with an easy laugh. "But you're going to have to help me out. Tell me what to do."

Francis started by grabbing one of Mary's bottles of oil from a bedside table. Pouring a bit of it into his own palm, he settled back into bed beside her, and slicked a couple of her fingers. Mary's breaths quickened as she watched his hands moving over hers, mimicking how he would prepare himself to enter her, and Francis wondered if she could feel how hard his heart was pounding. With anticipation, with anxiety.

It wasn't so long ago he had felt this same way, really: feeling her naked skin beneath him for the first time, exploring all Mary's intimate nooks that he had only imagined before. Afraid he would hurt her, yet trembling with the overwhelming desire to press onward. Did she feel that way now? "So, I suppose I start like this?" she asked in a whisper, watching his eyes, his lips, for guidance.

But her touch felt far surer than her words let on, as she trailed her hand down over his stomach and between his legs. The palm of her hand, heavy as it passed over his cock and scrotum. Francis hooked a leg around her thigh, opening himself to her touch. Shivered at the tips of her fingers gliding over the sensitive strip of flesh beyond that Philipe had so recently used to drive him mad. And noting the flutter of his eyelids, Mary lingered there a little longer, until Francis urged her, albeit in a reluctant whisper, "That's good, Mary—God, it's good—but a little further . . . There."

She halted at his word and the sudden hitch of his breath, rotating her fingertip around the depression of his entrance in uncertain little circles. But he assured her it was all right to press in. "Just," Francis cautioned her, "gently. Please. It's—"

"Your first time?" Mary cocked her brow at him, the smile lopsided on her lips.

And belatedly Francis realized they had said words not too dissimilar before. Although then their roles had been reversed, and it had been she begging his patience. She must have felt the same trepidation he did now, he thought—the ache to be filled by the one he loved that could not be denied, tempered only by a fear of pain, and the sense of helplessness against it.

The discomfort was sharp, startling. Francis must not have been able to hide it as well as he was trying, for Mary pulled back to see his face, his furrowed brows—worried that she should stop, retreat. He didn't have to go through with it. But Francis swore that he just needed time to adjust to the feeling. He was sure it would feel better if she went deeper; though what she was looking for, he could not explain, only that he would know when she found it.

When she did, it came as just as much of a start. Though not an unpleasant one at all, Francis thought, not—at—all. Just a little lump she could feel through the wall of his passage, Mary thought, not quite as easy to locate as a clitoris, but seeming to have much the same effect. The tension left Francis's brow, and a groan rumbled in his throat. He bucked against her, hardening again against her arm. Mary hooked her finger inside him, determined not to lose that spot. "Is this it?" she murmured, satisfied that Francis could barely find enough voice to answer her. Just a "Keep doing that—just that" he needed multiple breaths to get out.

His mouth found hers again, and Mary drank in each moan that fell from Francis's lips. "Is this what it feels like when I'm inside you?" he managed to mutter against her cheek. And though she knew she could never lose herself in his body as he could in hers, just the thought of it was enough to send a rush of desire to flood her loins.

"I was wondering the same thing," Mary said as his mouth moved over her throat, wondering if her heat was as tight around him when they were joined as his was around her finger now, gripping her digit possessively. Francis buried his face in her shoulder and cupped her breast through the nightshirt, kneading, circling the nipple with his thumb with every rock of his hips, every rub of Mary's fingertip within him. He hitched his leg further up her thigh, trying to find better purchase to pull them closer together.

But Mary thought she could find an easier angle for both of them. She rolled Francis onto his back, and rose to her knees between his thighs. Francis only flinched when she traded fingers for her middle one; but when she found that spot within him again, he arched beneath her, sighing deeply with pleasure. He lifted his hips off the mattress, thrusting in slow, shallow waves to her caresses, deep inside him; and Mary quickened the movement of her fingertip over that nub. It wasn't so unlike touching herself, in a way.

And in another, in the abject reversal of their positions, it was as close as she could reasonably come to experiencing the act as a man. It was one thing to be the head of a nation, quite another to be the master in the bedchamber. And it was exhilarating, to have such power over Francis—to feel him spread his legs for her, to watch him beg her with every fiber in his being to fill him. That power could be addictive. As it was, it was incredibly arousing.

Mary bit down on her whimper, but it did not escape Francis's notice. Nor did the steady rise and fall of her own hips, as she rubbed herself against the back of her own hand, eager for whatever release the friction might bring. He would not have minded watching her pleasure herself more. It brought a guilty little flush to her cheeks that he never tired of.

And it was quite clear to Francis that Mary was adroit at bringing herself to climax. Her middle finger inside him possessed a practiced assuredness that nothing else she did to him could match, though Francis was fairly sure she had never done this with another man. The movement came as naturally to her as rutting did to him. Instinctively, he wanted to reach for his cock, but there was really no need.

It was Mary—all Mary—who was the source of his delight. And the press of her finger, stoking the fire building inside him, was more than enough to drive him to a shuddering conclusion. The deep center of his release surprised Francis, and he peaked with a cry as much of discovery as ecstasy, giving himself over gladly to the firm grip of his body's convulsions. Never had he felt pleasure so all-encompassing, so purely good, so close to what he would imagine a religious experience to be. And it did not abate so quickly, but rolled on and on with each of Mary's strokes.

The intensity of it surprised Mary as well. She was used to the variety of her own orgasms, the elusive strong highs that seized her in her entirety if she was lucky enough to find them; but she had never really considered that her husband could experience something equally so total, so unlike his usual release inside her. Francis gasped her name as though she were an answer to a desperate prayer, entirely at the mercy of the wonderful buzzing within him.

The greedy, rhythmic tightening off his passage around her finger was enough to inspire a sympathetic contraction within Mary—not the most satisfying, to be sure, but certainly more than she had expected to experience tonight. Enough still that she had to catch her breath. And she flushed to realize how comfortably she had slipped into the role of penetrator, as she gradually—somewhat remorsefully—slowed the rolling of her hips between Francis's thighs.

"Well?" she huffed, looking down at her husband. "Was that everything you thought it would be?"

"And more." Francis moaned as she gently withdrew her finger, carried over by one last wave of pleasure as she brushed that sensitive spot within him on the way out.

Utterly spent, Francis had barely enough energy to turn her way as she stretched out beside him. He blinked tears out of his eyes to see her better, stroked her hair with a heavy hand. "Thank you for indulging me."

The way he was grinning, one would think he had just won some impossible prize—and in a way, Mary mused, that probably wasn't so far off the mark.

"I have a feeling I'm going to be owing you for this."

"Probably," she agreed, relishing the buzzing of nerves between her legs but wishing she could have shared a bit more in his rapture. Perhaps next time . . . "I'll have to think of a way you can repay me. I'm sure whatever I come up with, you won't find it too objectionable."

And she smiled mysteriously at him before she turned over to try to sleep, leaving Francis to contemplate all the possibilities.