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Prompt - Or a rewrite of 1x13 where Francis tells Mary he slept with Lola before they get married?
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He backs her into a nearby alcove, never stopping his passionate attack upon her lips and neck. The stones are so cold against her back in comparison to his warm, substantial, soothing body. His lips burn her own, hands sliding everywhere, from her face and hair, to her small waist and hips. Francis never stops kissing her for even a second, much to Mary's delight. The Prince leans her into the cold stones further, Mary goes willingly, letting out a trembling gasp for air as he works upon her neck with hot kisses and hotter bites. He nips and sucks at the vulnerable flesh she readily gives as a sacrifice for him. Even the pain of his blunt but sharp teeth as they nip and bite at her is pleasurable. He could always set her on fire.
Each and every nerve upon her body is racing, stiflingly hot, her gown and corset are too tight, caging her body inside. She's hyper-sensitive to his touch, her body beginning to tremble as he continues to mark her as his own. And, she was, she always had been. Whimpering, for his lips hadn't been on her own in far too long, Mary fists a large handful of long, soft blonde curls, pulling him back to her. He devours her soft, sweet pout mercilessly, pushing her even further into the stones that hide them both from not only French Court, but the entire world around them.
Let it not be said that Mary Stuart, the Queen of Scotland, perhaps rightful Queen of England, took and did not give, however. Quite the opposite, in fact. The Queen always found pleasure in giving it, and she did just that at this current, sensual moment. Her own lips bit and sucked at his flesh, taking hand fulls of his soft hair in her small hands, pulling and scraping at his scalp in just the way her love found such pleasure in. He still did now, in fact, if his grunting and panting was any indication. Her hips arched up to meet his, arms bounding around his neck and back, pulling him tighter towards her. At one point, she had been so needy and desperate, hot and unfulfilled, depraved and starving, that a leg had risen up to hook around his hip.
Francis could resist no more, tiring of this masochistic game of denying each other what they wanted.
"Let me make love to you," he whispered hotly on her lips. Mary immediately nodded, no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh, thanks to him and only him, a sinfully exhilarating thought.
The Dauphin of France -perhaps never was not- took the Queen of Scotland's hand and pulled them from their secretive hiding spot, taking off towards his rooms with swift, long lunges. Mary tittered behind him in her court shoes, barely able to keep up. She managed it, however, eagerly following her fiancee, tomorrow wedded husband, through every turn and corridor. It had been too long, she had to have him now.
From the way he spun her inside his chambers -glowing a sensual golden by all lit candles and roaring fire, surprisingly- her future husband could wait no longer than she could. Mary breathed a giggle when he gripped her wrist and spun her against the door, immediately covering her body with his own, resuming their sensual waltz, now without the risk of prying eyes. The Queen of Scotland began to moan, for his hands were far less restrained now, beginning to borderline tear at the fine laces of her gown. She pulled at his clothing eagerly, pulling at the buckles of his doublet, having some difficulty doing it blindly. Finally, it slid down from his body, pooling uselessly at their feet.
It was quickly joined by her long sleeved bodice, sliding off of her torso and arms, leaving her in nothing but her puffy skirts and white corset. That didn't seem to bother him, in fact, he was rather exhilarated by it, even picking her up, pressing her to the door again, her legs bound tightly around his hips.
