Black Rose

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 AT four, 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.
    What she did now, she did for duty.
    It took her less than fifteen minutes to conclude she and her great-grandmother wouldn’t have understood each other.
    Weather remains fine. Reginald’s business keeps him in New Orleans. I was unable to find the shade of blue silk I’m seeking. The shops here are simply not au courant. I believe we must arrange a trip to Paris. Though it’s imperative we engage another governess for the girls before we do. This current woman is entirely too independent. When I think of the money spent on her salary, her room and board, I find myself most dissatisfied by her service. Recently I gave her a very nice day dress, which didn’t suit me, and which she accepted without a qualm. However, when I ask for some small favor, she behaves very grudgingly. Surely she has time to run a few simple errands when there’s nothing else on her plate but minding the girls and teaching a few lessons.
    I have the impression she considers herself above her station.
    Roz stretched out her legs, flipped through pages. Most of the entries were more of the same. Complaints, tidbits about shopping, plans for parties, rehashes of parties attended. There was very little dealing with the children.
    She set that one aside for later, picked up another. Skimming, she found an entry on dismissing a maid for giggling in the hallway, another on a lavish ball. Then stopped, and read more carefully when an entry caught her eye.
    I’ve miscarried again. Why is it as painful to lose a child as to birth one? I’m exhausted. I wonder how I can suffer through this process yet again in the attempt to give Reginald the heir he so desperately wants. He will want to lie with me again as soon as I am able, and that ordeal will continue, I suspect, until I conceive once more.
    I can find no pleasure in it, nor in the girls who are a daily reminder of what I have yet to accomplish.
    At least, once I conceive yet again, I will be left to myself for the months of waiting. It is my duty to bear sons. I will not shirk my duty, and yet it seems I am unable to bring forth anything but chattering girls.
    I want only to sleep and forget that I have failed, once again, to provide my husband and this house with the heir they both demand.

    Children as duty only, Roz thought. How sad. How must those little girls have felt, being failures because of their sex? Had there been any joy in this house during Beatrice’s reign as its mistress, or had it all been duty and show?
    Depressed, she considered switching to one of her grandmother’s journals, but ordered herself to glance through one more.
    I’m sick to death of that busybody Mary Louise Berker. You would