Black Rose - NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

“Don’t you back-talk me, boy.”

“I’m not eight anymore, and you’re not welcome here. You think you can stand here and insult my mother? A woman with more class in one eyelash than you could cobble together out of every dried-up bone in your body? Now, I can show you the way out, or I can kick you out. Your choice.”

“You’re just like her.”

“That’s the first genuine thing you’ve said since you came in. This way, Cousin Rissy.”

He took her arm and, though she tried to swat him away, led her out of the room.

There was a beat of silence, then Hayley’s low whistle. “Go, Harper.”

TWENTY

UPSTAIRS IN THEsitting room, Mitch lifted Roz’s feet into his lap, and began to rub. “Long day for you.”

“Wasn’t it just.”

“You got in some mighty swings, Slugger.”

“I did, but Harper sure did bat clean-up and knock it out of the park.”

“I know I’m in love when my girl can talk in baseball analogies.” He lifted her foot higher to kiss her ankle. “I’ll take my share of the journals with me. I should be able to get a start on them tonight.”

“You’ve had a long day yourself. After the wedding’s soon enough.” She tipped her head back, closed her eyes as his thumb pressed into her arch. “Besides, if you go, you’ll stop rubbing my feet.”

“I was hoping this would be a suitable bribe.”

“You don’t need a bribe. I was hoping you’d stay.”

“It so happens I have my suit for the wedding out in the car.”

Her eyes stayed closed; her lips curved. “I like a man who thinks ahead.”

“I wasn’t sure there’d be a place for a man in the house tonight. Wedding eve, female rituals.”

“We started our rituals at the salon this morning, and we’ll pick them up tomorrow. They’re going to make a lovely family, aren’t they?”

“They already do. I enjoyed watching those boys stand up to the old woman, and your elegantly executed shots. Followed by Harper’s base-clearing run.”

“We were all wonderfully rude, weren’t we? Of course, she won’t speak to you again. Won’t help you with your book.”

“I’m not worried about it. And—we’ll call it postseason play—she’s unlikely to be entertained by what I write about her.”

“I will be. She knows. She knows who Amelia is, what happened to her. I suppose she always has. There’s a possibility she destroyed any journals with a mention of her—a small one, as anything pertaining to Harper House is sacrosanct to her. But it’s something we should be prepared for.”

“We just need a few seeds. I can propagate from there.”

She opened her eyes. “Aren’t you clever? I know I’m in love when my guy can talk in gardening terms.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet. Rosalind, I’m seduced by your feet.”

“My feet?”

“Crazy about them. I just never know . . .” Slowly he drew off one of her thick socks. “What I’ll find. Ah.” He brushed a finger over her toenails, painted pale shell pink, with just a hint of glitter. “Surprise, surprise.”

“They’re often one of my little secrets.”

He lifted her feet, traced his lips down her arch. “I love secrets.”

There was something powerful about pleasuring a strong woman, watching her, feeling her surrender to sensation. A tiny quiver, a quiet sigh was unspeakably erotic when you knew the woman yeilded to no one.

From attraction to passion, from passion to love. It was a journey he’d never planned to make again. Yet here he was. When he touched her, he knew she was the woman, the only woman he wanted to spend his life with. He wondered how he’d reached this point in his life without knowing, and needing, her scent, the sound of her voice, the fascinating textures of her skin.

When she rose up, locking her arms around him, fixing her mouth warmly on his, his heart nearly burst.

“I can see you in the dark,” he told her. “I can hear you when you’re miles away.”

The small sound she made was pure emotion as she sank into him.

She held tight, tight a moment with her head on his shoulder, her heart knocking against his. How love could be so many different things at so many different times, she’d never understand. She could only be grateful for it, grateful to have found this love at this time.

She would cherish it. Cherish him.

She eased back to take his face in her hands, so their eyes met. “It’s harder when you come into something like this, knowing more, having more behind you. But at the same time, it’s more itself. Fuller, richer. I want you to know that’s how I feel with you. Full and rich.”

“I don’t think I can do without you, Rosalind.”

“Good.” She touched her lips to his. “Good,” she repeated and slid slow and deep into the kiss.

She curled around him, breathing him in. His hair, his skin. Here, unbearable tenderness, and there, a simmering excitement. While her mouth clung to his, her fingers flipped open the buttons of his shirt, lifted her arms so he could draw her away and they could press together, warm flesh to warm flesh.

He pressed her back onto the couch, let his hands and lips roam over her. Breasts and shoulders and throat, down to that impossibly narrow torso.

There were signs of the children she’d borne, the men she’d made. For a moment he lay his cheek on her belly, amazed he’d been given the gift of a woman so vital, so potent.

She stroked his back, gliding on the shimmer that coated her senses, lazily working her hands between them to unbutton his jeans. She found him hard and hot, and felt her own muscles bunch and quiver in anticipation.

Now they tugged at clothes, and once again she rose up. This time she straddled him, staring into those bottle-green eyes as she slowly, slowly took him inside her.

“Ah. God.” She gripped the back of the couch, her fingers digging in.

With a brutal hold on control, she rode, hips moving in a tortuously gentle rhythm, strong thighs caging him as she set the pace.

She could feel his hands on her, a desperate grip on her hips as he struggled to let her lead. Then a smooth caress up her back, a slick stroke to cup her breasts.

She tightened around him, pressing her mouth to his when she came so he could taste her moan. He was buried in her, their arms locked around each other, when she threw her head back. When her eyes, glassy with arousal, finally closed.

And she whipped him, joyfully, to the finish.

ROZ WOKE ATfour, too early to jog, too late to talk herself back to sleep. She lay awhile, in the quiet dark. It amazed her how quickly she’d gotten used to having Mitch in her bed. She didn’t feel crowded, or even surprised to have him sleeping beside her.

It felt more natural than she’d expected—not something she had to adjust to, but something she’d discovered she no longer wanted to do without.

She wondered why it didn’t feel odd to wake with him, to start the daily routine with another person in her space. The bathroom shuffle, the conversation—or the silence—while they dressed.

Not odd or strange, she decided, maybe because some part of her had been waiting to make this unit again. She hadn’t looked for it, or sought it, hadn’t pined without it. In some ways, the years alone had helped make her the woman she was. And that woman was ready to share the rest of her life, her home, her family, with this man.

She slipped out of bed, moving quietly. Another change, she realized. It had been a long time since she’d had to worry about disturbing a sleeping mate.

She moved to her sitting room to choose one of the journals. She ran her hand gently over one of her grandmother’s. Those she would save for later, those she would read for pleasure and for sentiment.