"Tell me when you want me to stop."
Mary's heart swells with more things than she can count, ellation, pleasure, excitement, fear terror, love adoration and a thousand other things she doesn't even understand, but by God, she feels them. The weight of him pushing her into the goose feather bed mattress, the feeling of his hair skating across her brow, the blonde curls that she had adored even as a child so soft and silky in a way they hadn't ever been before, it made her want him in a way she hadn't ever wanted to such a degree. The warmth of his hands upon her neck, too timid to go any lower until he received the consent he was hoping for, knowing how important her virtue was to somebody like her, but also unable to resist the needs that his body screams.
Mary spoke her answer, in a breathy, husky whisper that was filled with awe and need and want and adoration.
"Never," she whispers.
He hesitates for a moment -just a brief blip- his eyes boring down into hers, his fingers threading through and over her own, holding her hands out in a position that could be described as biblical, blasphemous, but the almighty Christian God seems to hold no place in the bed belonging to the Dauphin de France, nor does the prospect of propriety and rightness, for the Queen of Scots arches her neck up to meet the lips of the man who would one day become her husband and provide her with security and safety, giving him her body as well as her heart and soul.
Her fingers slide out of his and slide into his hair as their lips meet once again, and she allows herself a smile when he moans, his hands framing her face, his entire weight pitching her into the mattress. She felt so small, so secure and protected in this moment that it doesn't matter that papers have not been signed and there is not a room full of witnesses and members of the clergy and the cloth. She wanted this. This may have been the only thing she had ever, ever wanted. Not what the Queen of Scots wanted, but what she -Mary- wanted. Wanted on a primital level, an elemental level, an animalistic level. The pleasure from him just crooking his leg to further pin her under him was breathtaking, a marvel in and of itself.
Her lips burn with desire when he leaves her be, only to suckle at her jawline and neck. Mary whimpers and withers and sivers underneath him, and it seems to please the man she loved with everything she had, for he does it all the more. In honesty, she had neither the slightest or largest idea or where this need, this desire, this lust could be taking her. Never had Mary been here before, the only clue she had to the pleasures of the flesh was the rendezvous she and the man suckling at her neck was the brief period of time wherein she was promised to another and this very man pinned her to the blanket at the water's edge and showed her the pleasure a man could bring to a woman, as brief showcase that could be, for there were eyes and ears all over the grounds. His kisses, his touch, they bring her breathless and render her helpless and hungry and pleading.
His hands come to rest at the back of her head, bunching two handfuls of her hair in his hands, bringing her to lean upwards as he arches backwards. The moan she gives him, their lips tangling once more, pressed together with urgency and lanquidity, like they have a mere minute and an eternity at the same time. The heat of her body and the curiousness in which she touches him, her hands experimentally pushing underneath the large tunic he wears, exploring the warmth of his skin, feeling him for the first time uncovered and bare to her, for her lips to kiss and for her eyes to devour and for her hands to explore, the knowledge brings the two of them closer, more frantic, the need they both feel becoming more and more as the time goes on.
Finally, Francis pulls her up enough to rid her of the short, sheer robe she had been wearing when she had came to him this night. He crushes the fabric in his hand, intent on continuing this exploration into each other's bodies, but Mary's sudden tensing and sharp inhale against his cheek was enough to bring him crashing back to earth. The reality of what had happened is like ice water being thrown over him and he pulls back, frowning at her.
"Mary? What is it?" Francis asks, concerned. She inhales slowly, opening her eyes at the same speed. She appears to be in a trance, enchanted by this man who suddenly pulled back from her.
"I should be asking that of you." she says lowly. "You stopped, not me." she says, coking her head to one side, suddenly aware that they were just as entangled now as they were a few moments ago. "What is it, Francis?"
"When I pulled that from you-" he gestures to the crumpled piece of tulle. "you tensed as if you were in pain. I never want to hurt you, Mary."
"No, no," she flushes in what appears to be shame, and bows her head. "it's just-last night-" she sighs. "the Count, he-he pushed me into the wall of the banquet hall, and after, I was thrown into the table. I'm, I'm a little sore from it, that's all. I'm fine, Francis." Mary says.
Francis frowns. In the melay of it all, when they killed the Count, he had seen the tear marks on her face, and Kenna had told him that they were attacked by the Italian man and his band of bastards, but Mary hadn't let slip that anything had happened to her. The knowledge that something had, it made his blood boil. If the bastard wasn't dead, then by the time Francis was through with him, he damn sure would beg for it.
Francis looks down at Mary's hands, and sure enough, there are bruises on her wrists. His jaw clenched in anger at the sight. They're not dark enough to be obvious, but they are noticeable now that he looks for them.
"Where else?" Francis demands. "Where else did he hurt you?"
"Uh-" Mary stutters. but then, she gestures to her neck and then to her back. "there's a little mark here, Greer says that there's a bruise on my back from where I landed, but not much else."
"We don't have to, you know." he sighs. "I wouldn't want to pressure you after what happened to you, I wouldn't want to-"
"Francis," Mary interrupts him quietly. "do you think I wouldn't be there if I wasn't comfortable? Do you think that I would have let you get me here-" she gestures to the bed with a slight flush. "if I didn't want to be?"
"Mary, I-"
"It's alright, Francis." she insists quietly. "I want this. I want you." she gets nearer. "Never stop."
/
I've never got how they had Mary be perfectly fine immediately after her two attempted rapes , like wouldn't she be at least a little shook up and hurt after at least the count throwing her around like she was a damn rag doll? This show, man *eye roll*
