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This story is a sequel to: Winter's Night

"Do you think you need to investigate?" Meg frowned, slightly puzzled. She picked up her glasses from a table by the couch and put them on, an action that caused Ben to smile. She'd always denied even owning a pair. It cheered him that she felt comfortable enough to wear them around him.

He squinted out of the window, observing with relief that there was no sign of anyone, living or otherwise, on the drifted street. "There's nobody out there now. It must have been a neighbor, or someone just passing through." He put his arm around her and drew her close as she came to stand beside him. "See? Nothing out there at all."

"Strange. Well, one thing's certain. We're not going anywhere until the snowplow gets here." Meg stifled a sneeze. "I could do with another cup of tea, and I think I want it before I get my shower. How about you?"

Ben followed her into the kitchen, where she lit the burner under the kettle. She glanced up at the clock. "Oh, it's only a little after seven," she observed as she got out a pair of mugs. "It's the curse of our profession."

"You mean being an early riser?"

"What a waste of a good snowstorm," Meg went on ruefully. "We could have slept for hours more. But I'm up with the chickens no matter what. Even when I take a vacation."

"I guess I'm that way, too. And even if I weren't, Diefenbaker isn't likely to allow any sleeping-in. I guess it's not so bad." He looked up at her as she placed a mug of tea in front of him. "After all, I have my reputation to protect."

"Your reputation?" Meg looked at him over the top of her glasses. Although his expression was serious, the ghost of a dimple had appeared. "Are you joking? Yes you are, you're joking!"

"Yes, but you won't tell anyone, will you? There's that reputation . . ." The dimple had become a full-fledged smile.

Meg smiled back as she took another sip of her tea. She'd always suspected the sense of humor was there - ever since their ridiculous adventure in the egg incubator. Now she was sure, and it warmed her. "There are a number of things about you I'd like to keep to myself," she replied as she put down her empty mug and stood up. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm going to get cleaned up." She took their cups, placed them in the sink, and headed for the living room. As she reached the foot of the steps, she paused. "Wait here a minute, Ben. I need to go get something from upstairs."

As she disappeared up the steps, Ben returned to the front window. His father waved in salute and turned, continuing up the snowy hill. Ben sighed as he closed the curtain firmly against the bright early-morning sunshine. He knew the topic of the stranger would come up in the day's conversation, for Meg seldom forgot anything.

He turned as he heard her returning. She carried a small, brown cardboard box. "Here it is," she was saying. "It just took me a minute to find it. Let's take it in here and open it." Side by side they turned down the back hallway toward the bedroom.

While Meg had collected Arts and Crafts pieces for the rest of her small home, the furniture in her room was different. Obviously handed down and cherished, the pieces were Victorian rosewood, polished to a soft gleam. The sleigh bed was higher than modern beds, so that one had the sense of climbing up into it. Small Oriental rugs added a note of warmth and comfort to her private sanctuary, but the light walls gave it an airy feeling. There was a carved marble?topped dresser, its large mirror rippled with age. A simple Pembroke table served as Meg's dressing table, and an old shaving mirror sat atop it. It was here that she set down the box and began to open it. From layers of tissue paper she extracted a shaving mug, brush, leather strap, and a pearl?handled straight razor.

"Will these do?" she asked. "They belonged to my father. He used them every day. I think you'll find they're still in pretty good condition."

He tested the razor with his thumb and smiled down at her. "These will be just fine," he said. "My father shaved with a razor like this, and so do I." He folded the razor and bent down to kiss her.

"I used to watch my father shave with that sometimes when I was little," Meg replied. "I was always afraid he was going to cut his throat."

Ben laughed. "You can imagine what it was like learning to use one of these," he replied. "Now, if I could trouble you for some soap?"

"Right this way." Meg walked to the bathroom, kicking off her slippers as she went, and rummaged in the oak vanity Ben had studied so carefully the night before. In a moment she had produced a bar of soap and fresh towels, which she laid out for him. "Mind if I stay and watch?" she asked.

Ben set the shaving articles on the vanity, took her by both hands, and seated her ceremoniously on the edge of the bathtub. He shrugged out of his suspenders and pulled off his long?sleeved undershirt, hanging it on the hook on the door. Meg watched in companionable silence as he expertly sharpened the razor, placed the soap into the mug and whipped it into a foam with the brush, dampened his face and applied the foam to it, and began to shave. Watching her father had never been like this. She thought she had never seen anyone look so perfect, even while engaged in this small, everyday ritual. She found herself memorizing the planes and curves of his back and shoulders, the way his muscles moved under the smooth skin. Occasionally, he caught sight of her in the mirror, and his eyes smiled at her.

When he had finished, he turned, took her by both hands again, and pulled her up. "Will this do?" he asked, laying her hand on his cheek.

She did not answer but lightly traced the line of his jaw with her finger, then put her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Ben's kisses, she had learned to her delight, started slowly, gently, almost shyly; but they did not stay that way for long. She made a soft sound in the back of her throat as his mouth began to take hers more greedily.

Ben's hands moved to her shoulders, pushing the loosely?tied robe away, feeling the silken skin beneath his palms. Her bones felt fragile, as though he could crush them easily; but then there was that strength beneath the soft flesh. His hand moved down the curve of her back as his body remembered the moment when that soft strength had been used to pull him close, closer...

It was Meg who broke off the kiss, reluctantly brushing his lips one last time, running her hands down his chest as she gently pushed him away. "I thought we came in here to get cleaned up," she said softly, watching his eyes as he opened them and looked down at her.

"You're right," he replied. "I wish I had some clean clothes to put on."

She reached behind her and handed him a towel, pointing towards the door. "The washing machine is in the room behind the kitchen."

Ben gathered up his shirt as he left the room, and Meg thought she could hear him whistling out in the hallway. She dropped her robe and, turning to the vanity, picked up a hair clip she kept there, using it to secure the hair off her neck in a topknot. She began to fill the bathtub with comfortably hot water, then paused. Somehow she could not imagine Ben in a tub filled with bubbles; but then she smiled impishly to herself and poured in a liberal portion. She considered opening the curtains behind the tub; but remembering the strange man who had been strolling about, she decided to keep them shut. She stepped up into the large, freestanding bathtub and settled herself to wait. She did not wait long.

Ben stood in the doorway for a moment looking at her. The filtered sunlight from the curtained window behind her caught the tendrils of her hair and put red?gold highlights there. Her face was flushed and rosy from the warm bath. The rest of her was hidden under a froth of bubbles. "This looks like where I came in," he said, moving to take the same place behind the tub he had occupied the night before.

She looked at him over her shoulder. "I don't know why you're staying out there in the cold when there's plenty of room in here."

That and the feel of her soft hair brushing against his cheek were all the invitation he needed. He was into the water in a moment, fitting himself closely behind her, spoon?fashion, curving his arms around her waist. "So now what happens? Now that you have me in here with you and all these . . . bubbles?" he asked.

Meg paused for a moment. She could hear the echo of his voice from the night before, Relax, Meg. There's plenty of time. She scooted out of his embrace a little way, picked up the washcloth, and handed it back to him. "You could start on my back," she replied, leaning forward a little and curving her head to one side as though offering her neck to him.

Ben traced the graceful curve of her neck with one finger. The little escaping tendrils of her hair, brushing against his hand, tickled him sensuously. He resisted the urge to bury his face there, picked up the soap, and began to apply it to her back, rubbing gently with the tips of his fingers, then the washcloth. Meg stretched like a cat and sighed with pleasure as his hands moved lower. She gave a delighted little shiver when he reached the small of her back.

"You're going to have to turn around now if you want me to wash any more," he said quietly, as he let his lips travel from her ear to the nape of her neck.

Meg's only response was to shiver again. She sat still, unsure if her muscles would obey any directive she might give them. She did not turn around, but settled more closely against him and offered her neck to his kisses again. Ben drew her closer, returning his attention to her neck and shoulders, showering them with small kisses, each of which made her long for the next. As his kisses grew more urgent, she could feel her own desire mirrored in his flesh as she pressed closely against him.

Ben's hands slid over her breasts. He could feel the nipples tighten under his palms despite the warmth of the water, and he pinched them gently between his fingers, eliciting a little gasp from Meg. At the same time, he made a little trail of kisses from her ear to her cheek, as far as he could reach, and said "If you would turn around, I could kiss you properly."

That was enough for Meg. She turned to face him, clasping his neck to keep from slipping, and kneeling astride his legs. She bent down to kiss him lightly, teasingly, once or twice. His mouth snatched at hers fiercely, crushing her lips against her teeth momentarily. Meg, responding to his hunger, kissed back with an intensity that surprised and delighted them both. She felt she wanted to devour him, and as her mouth continued its greedy exploration of his, she pressed herself more closely against him.

The sensation of her skin against his, intensified by the warm, soapy water, was delicious. Everywhere Ben touched her, she was soft, yielding, frictionless. As he surrendered his mouth to her, his hands grew more aggressive. One found a breast, teasing the nipple back to hardness as the other traced the line of her back, sliding down her hip, grasping her from behind to pull her as close to him as possible.

Meg could feel him, erect and eager, pressing against her own hot, eager flesh as though teasing, begging, demanding admittance. She rocked back and forth, mirroring his thrusts and teasing him back, as a delicious heat began to spread through her. When the sensation became more than she could bear, she let go of his mouth with a soft growl, guiding him home with one hand as she settled on his lap. She cried out softly, and Ben looked at her, suddenly concerned that he might have hurt her. Wordlessly, she shook her head to reassure him, then threw her arms around him again and laid her head against his shoulder. As she began to move against him, she felt him unbelievably deep within her. She heard the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath, and her mouth sought his blindly.

Her small sounds of pleasure excited Ben, just as they had the night before. She surrounded him so closely, and he seemed buried so deep inside her that he could not tell where she ended and he began. She gave another little incoherent cry and jerked suddenly. It sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him, and he wanted more. He looked at her through half-closed eyes and saw the flush that spread over her cheeks. Her eyes were shut tightly as though she moved on some razor's edge between pleasure and pain, and he felt her arms tighten around his neck as her movements became more frantic. He reached down and began to caress her gently in that soft place where their bodies met. That was enough for Meg. She sobbed against his shoulder in the first wave of her climax. As her muscles began to contract around him, Ben felt himself being swept away with her. He drew in a deep, ragged breath, and held her still for an instant before beginning to answer her movements with deep, powerful thrusts of his own, finally surrendering himself to the storm that now engulfed them both.

Neither of them knew how long they stayed that way, but when their senses began to return at last, they found that each was clinging to the other as though seeking comfort after the firestorm they had just passed through together. Meg's cheek rested on Ben's shoulder, and he began to feel her soft, regular breaths tickling his skin as his own breathing returned to normal. He caressed her cheek gently and smiled down at her. She returned his gaze, but neither of them spoke. A sort of shyness seemed to have come over them, as though both knew that the experience they had just shared would remain too profound for words.

Finally Ben said, "I'm not going to let you freeze in this bathtub again."

Meg kissed the hollow of his shoulder before replying with a small laugh, "I'm not entirely certain I can stand up."

"Well, try." He took her hands and steadied her before standing up himself.

Once they were out of the bath, he took a towel and began to dry her off again as he had the night before. This time he kept his motions light and gentle. Meg, still shuddering occasionally in aftershock, found that this simple act grounded and centered her back in the real world, and she kissed him lightly to let him know that she appreciated it.

As Meg pulled on her robe, she sneezed. Ben, who had knotted a towel around his waist, looked over at her and said, "You should get back into bed."

"I think I will."

"Dryer," he replied. "I'll be right back."

Meg crossed to the vanity and picked up her hairbrush. "There are some things upstairs that belonged to my father, Ben," she began. "Nothing important. There's a pair of old khaki pants he left here the last time he visited, when he was helping me paint. And his lucky fishing shirt." She paused. "I just couldn't bring myself to throw them away - not just yet, anyway. He was about your height. A little shorter, a little heavier. If they fit, you wouldn't have to get back into your uniform. They're upstairs in the guest room closet."

"Sounds perfect."

Ben found the clothes without difficulty in the large, book-lined room that served as both den and guest room. The shirt was flannel, old and worn to near-transparency at the elbows. Ben looked at it thoughtfully. An old shirt, a razor: Meg had kept small, simple reminders of her father, but they were things that had been close to him every day.

When he returned to the bedroom a few minutes later, Ben found that Meg had followed his suggestion and returned to bed. A book was open on her lap, and she looked up at him over her glasses. Ben noticed that she had left room for him in the wide bed. Although he had no excuse for lying around, neither could he see himself wandering around the house in a towel while his underwear dried.

"Would you like a glass of orange juice?" he began. "Tea?"

Meg patted the quilt beside her. "Just come lie down and relax for a few minutes. Take a nap if you want." She put down her book and removed her glasses. Ben curled up beside her, and she fitted herself comfortably against him and was quickly asleep. Her light breaths were hypnotic, and he felt himself matching his breathing to hers, drifting off pleasantly. In the interval before sleep came, he reflected that while he was certainly no stranger to women, he had very little experience of sleeping - just sleeping - with someone he loved.

Although he had fallen asleep easily enough, old habits were hard to break. Ben was awake less than an hour after the nap began. He looked down at Meg, who was nestled against him. She showed no signs of awakening, but Ben knew that further attempts at sleep would be fruitless for him. He might as well get to work on the front walk. Meg stirred a little, sighed, and flung out an arm as he eased himself out of bed. Sleep was the best thing for her, he thought.

A look outside revealed that the sky had grown dark again. There was no sign of the snowplow. Ben dressed quickly in the kitchen. The khaki pants were a little loose and a little short, but the shirt seemed to fit him perfectly. He finished by pulling on his uniform boots, overcoat, and hat. Ben located the snow shovel by the back door and left the house by the front door. He made short work of the steps and stopped to survey the walkway. At least a meter of snow had fallen yesterday, and the clouds seemed to promise more. The shovel bit into the deep snow.

"That's the dumbest-looking thing I've ever seen." The voice came from behind him. "What in hell's wrong with that shovel? Why don't you take a few minutes to straighten it out?"

"Hello, Dad." Ben leaned over and dug up another shovelful. "I was wondering when you'd drop in." He threw the snow over onto the lawn. "I can't straighten it out because it was designed this way." He bent easily at the knees, picked up another shovelful of snow, and tossed it aside. "See? The bends in the handle minimize the strain to the back."

"As if anybody your age had to worry about back strain," Bob Fraser snorted. "Anyway, I didn't come here to talk to you about snow shovels."

"I thought as much." Ben leaned the shovel against a drift and turned to face his father. "What's on your mind, Dad?"

"You know perfectly well what's on my mind. You're in hot water now, Son. You and that Inspector of yours."

"And why would that be, Dad?"

"What do you mean, why,'" the older Fraser sputtered. "You've been shut up together in that house since yesterday afternoon!"

"I'm not even going to bother answering that," replied Ben, picking up the shovel and starting to work again.

"You'd better bother. She's your commanding officer!"

"All right. She's my commanding officer."

"Well, you could at least acknowledge the fact that I'm standing outside here in the snow trying to help you!"

Ben put down the shovel and turned again, frowning slightly and rubbing his eyebrow with a knuckle.

"You see that? Guilty! Since you were old enough to walk, any time you got yourself into trouble you rubbed your eyebrow like that. I remember when you took yourself off for three days and shot that elk."

"It was a caribou, Dad."

"Whatever!" Bob Fraser could barely contain his exasperation. "So what're you going to do?"

"Any suggestions?"

The elder Fraser crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, scowling. "She's going to be in a hell of a lot more trouble than you are."

"Assuming word of this gets out."

"You're saying it won't?" The older man pushed his hat back with his thumb, as though it had suddenly grown too warm. "Son, you're a lot dumber than I thought you were." He began to walk away, then turned. "I'll be back when you can talk more sense."

"Suit yourself, Dad. I knew you wouldn't want to get into the real issues."

"Ah, now you're talkin'." The older man brightened perceptibly. "Think I might get a grandchild out of this?"

Ben leaned on the shovel with a thoughtful air. "I don't know, Dad."

"What's not to know? You're both young. You're certainly healthy." Ben threw his father a sharp look, and the older man held up his hand. "And no, I haven't been spying on you. The two of you are obviously wild about each other. You could have a fine family. So what're you waiting for?" He paused for a moment. "If it's the fraternization, I may be able to help."

"It's more than that. It's . . ."

"Oh, no. We're not going to start talking about feelings again, are we? You know I've never been much for that. Let the women worry about them, I always say."

"No, Dad. I'm not interested in talking with you about feelings."

"Good, then." Bob Fraser rubbed his gloved hands together. "I've got one piece of advice for you, son. Don't outsmart yourself this time."

Ben said nothing, but the crease between his eyebrows deepened.

"What I mean to say is . . ." his father went on.

"What you mean to say is, you're more interested in perpetuating the family name than you are in whether I'd make even a halfway decent husband." his son finished for him. "Or father."

The older Fraser looked at his son for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "If you don't try, you'll never know, will you?" He turned again as if to go, then turned back. "Aside from the fact that I let her be snatched away from us, there's only one thing - just one - that I regret about my life with your mother."

Ben cringed inwardly but did not shrink from replying, "And what's that?"

"That I didn't marry her sooner, Son." With that his father was gone.

Ben picked up the shovel, sighed, and dug into the snow again.

Although she had to admit to herself that she'd dreamed - quite often, actually - of making love with Benton Fraser, she'd never imagined he would be so passionate, so inventive, or so exquisitely tender. She stretched contentedly. She would just have to add these to his other qualities, the ones like intelligence, kindness, and innate goodness that she hadn't had to go to bed with him to find out about. Meg heard the snow shovel again, and with a final luxurious stretch, she threw off the covers and got out of bed. He should have lunch when he finished the walk.

Ben looked down at his feet. Several inches of thermal underwear showed between his bare foot and the hem of the khakis. "Yes, the pants are a little short, aren't they." He struck a theatrical, muscleman's pose. "But I thought they looked very fetching with the boots."

Meg laughed and came off the couch and into his arms. "Did you bring the mail in?" she asked.

"Mail?"

"Yes. Didn't I hear you talking with the postman?"

Ben looked down at her and said nothing. He was a poor liar, and they both knew it well. Meg did not break her gaze, and finally he dropped his and said, "Let's get some of that coffee. There are a few things you should probably know about. Well, one thing in particular . . ."

He let go of her reluctantly and led the way into the kitchen, where he busied himself for a few minutes with the coffee.

"So," Meg went on as he handed her a mug. "Who was that?"

"That," Ben began. "That was . . ." He seated himself at the table, and she picked up the plate of sandwiches she'd prepared and joined him. He agitated his coffee with a spoon, a fact which Meg found interesting since he took it black.

"That was," she echoed. "Who was it, one of the neighbors?"

"It was my father," he replied, looking at her steadily.

She laughed, and he thought how much he enjoyed hearing the sound. Then she stopped abruptly and looked at him. "You're serious, aren't you. But your father's been dead for years."

"Correct. But he . . . he manages to visit from time to time." Ben dropped his eyes to his coffee and took a sip. "Up to now, I've always assumed he was some kind of manifestation of my own thoughts. Some mechanism I've developed since his death to . . . to, well, evaluate things. But this . . ." He stopped and looked directly at her.

"Manifestation! In a pig's eye!"

The voice startled them both, and Meg turned to see the figure of a man standing at the back entry to the kitchen.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Her voice rang out with authority. "And just who are you?"

"Sergeant Robert Fraser, Ma'am. Late of the Northwest Territories." He stood quietly at attention, but being indoors, did not salute. "More recently, I've been . . . well, I've been other places."

Meg turned and looked at Ben. "Is this man your father?"

"Yes, he is," Ben replied quietly and evenly. "Hello, Dad."

"Son, your scarlets are lying in a heap back there by the clothes dryer. Not very disciplined of you, I must say."

Ben realized that in his haste to return to Meg that morning, he'd neglected to hang up his uniform. "Thanks, Dad. I'll take care of it."

"Well, Sergeant," Meg began. Ben recognized the slightly brittle, falsely cheerful tone she used when she was truly flustered. "You might as well take off your coat and sit down. Help yourself to a cup of coffee."

"Thank you, Ma'am." The older Fraser removed his fur jacket and seated himself carefully at the table. "But I gave up coffee a couple of years ago. About the time I gave up a lot of other things."

"Understood, Sergeant." To Meg's credit, and Ben's astonishment, she seemed to have regained her composure. "Now, what can I do for you?" Meg sounded as though she were conducting a review or discussing a case with a visiting officer.

"Well, Ma'am." The older Fraser laid his hands on the table -- for once at a loss for words. With a deep sigh, he finally went on. "Permission to speak freely, Ma'am?"

"I think we'd better decide on one thing immediately," Meg replied. "Is this an official visit or a social call?"

Ben said nothing, but a close observer might have noticed he seemed delighted at his father's discomfort.

"I'd have to say it's a social call," Bob replied.

"Well, then, I'd suggest we eliminate the formality. You may call me 'Meg'."

"Just get on with it, Dad," Ben added.

"All right, then. Although I've been in your vicinity before, I wanted to meet you personally. Get to know you a little." The color rose in Meg's cheeks, and she drew in a breath as if she wanted to say something. Bob Fraser held up his hand, and she subsided. "Meg, I was on that train with you. The one that fellow . . . what was his name?"

"Randal Bolt, Dad," added his son.

"Right. At any rate, I heard every word you said to Buck Frobisher. In fact, I was the one who urged him to console you when Ben here left the train so abruptly. And Buck made a mighty poor job of it if you ask me . . ."

"And did you . . . did you see or hear anything else?" Meg asked.

"I was pretty busy elsewhere, as I recall." Bob threw his son a sharp look.

"I see." A little of the brittle nervousness had returned to Meg's voice. "So Sergeant Frobisher can see you. You and he were partners, right?"

"Friends and partners for many years. He was like one of the family, you might say."

"One of the family," Meg replied quietly. She looked over at Ben, who was carefully working his way through a sandwich. With a small flash of annoyance, she wondered how he could consider food at a time like this.

"I wanted to introduce myself, Meg. Just to let you know I'm around if you ever need anything." Bob paused and frowned slightly. "I was a member of the Force my whole life. It was my life, you might say, until I dropped in harness."

"Until you were killed in the line of duty," Meg corrected him gently. "You died trying to correct a great injustice." She reached out as if to touch his hands, but he drew them away with a quirky grin.

"Well, maybe that's so. But what I wanted to say was that I've been just about everywhere and seen just about everything. If there's anything I can do to help . . . any information or advice you need . . . well, I'll do what I can."

"Thank you," replied Meg simply.

Ben, his sandwich forgotten, was watching the two of them intently.

"Well," Bob Fraser went on, clearing his throat. "Well, now that's out of the way." He tugged at the collar of his shirt in a nervous gesture remarkably like that used so often by his son, then stood up. "I'd better get going." Meg began to stand up. "No, no. That's all right. I can see myself out. It was good to meet you, Meg. And Ben, hang up your uniform." With that Bob Fraser turned and was gone.

Meg stared after him thoughtfully. "Do you see him often?" she finally asked.

"Often enough," Ben replied. "In fact, you may have overheard certain conversations."

Meg laughed. "So you're telling me we don't have to worry about your psychological profile turning to Swiss cheese."

"I don't know about that. He can be pretty exasperating."

"What do you suppose he wanted?" Meg asked thoughtfully. Some part of her was astonished that she had assimilated this incident so easily.

"It's hard to say," replied Ben. "As far as I know, Buck Frobisher is the only other person ever to see him, and they were very close in life. Maybe he wants to signal his . . . his approval. Not that I'd have asked for it in his lifetime, you understand." Ben took a final sip of his coffee. "Besides, on occasion, he can be genuinely helpful. Rarely."

"He wouldn't have . . . he couldn't have . . ."

"Spied on us? I really don't believe so," Ben replied. "It's not something he would have done in life."

"Well," said Meg briskly. "He seems nice enough. I'll be glad to see him whenever he stops by." She stood up and began clearing away the dishes.

Ben laughed. "You say that now," he replied. "Wait till he pops out of your closet or you find him sitting next to you in the car."

Wordlessly, Meg took the tea towel and dish cloth and disappeared into the back room. When she returned, she strolled over to Ben, took the coffee mug out of his hand, set it on the table, and settled herself on his lap. He felt her warm breath on his cheek, the exquisite sensation of her tongue caressing the rim of his ear, before she said quietly, "Well, I've hung up your uniform for you. But I'll be damned if I'm going to iron it."

Where twenty-four hours before Ben might have given a guilty start at the thought of that uniform, now he simply laughed. He found her ear in turn, nibbling gently at the lobe. "I'll take care of it," he murmured. "But I had something else in mind."

"Mmm. And what was that?" She threw her head back so that he could kiss his way down the side of her neck to the triangle of flesh at her throat left exposed by the shirt.

"I was thinking . . ." Ben began working on the buttons of her shirt, leaving a kiss behind after each one.

"You were thinking? Ahh . . . " Meg trailed off as he gently slid the shirt off over her shoulders. She sighed with pleasure as his searching lips found a breast. "What was it you were thinking?" she finally murmured.

Ben left off his explorations and looked at her. "I was thinking how much I'd like to spend the rest of the day in bed with you," he replied Meg bit her lower lip in a gesture that had always managed to set his senses on edge. She kissed him lightly and stood up, pushing him gently back down when he began to follow. Her eyes never left his face as she unbuttoned one cuff, then the other, and allowed the shirt to fall to the floor with a little shake of her shoulders. She hadn't been wearing a bra, and Ben reflected momentarily that she didn't really require one. With a slight smile, she hooked a finger into the button of her jeans, then slid the zipper down very slowly. With another little shimmy, the jeans fell from her slim hips to the floor, and she kicked them away with a single, fluid movement. She was wearing white panties of some soft material, probably cotton, and they lent an air of girlish piquancy to her movements. Ben could make out the faint, dark triangle through the cotton, and he felt a pleasant tightening in his own groin as he considered its promise. She took both his hands in hers, drawing him gently to his feet. "I think we should go there now," she finally said. "We're wasting daylight."

As Ben swung her up into his arms, Meg reflected briefly that she'd probably been carried around more in the past twenty-four hours than she had since infancy. She liked it. Ben's hold on her tightened as she began working on his ear again. When they reached the bedroom, he set her lightly on her feet. Meg threw back the comforter and sat crosslegged on the bed, looking up at Ben with an expectant air. "You have an awful lot of clothes on," she observed.

Ben licked his lips with a nervous air that was entirely negated by the look in his eyes. He unbuttoned the lucky shirt carefully, turning aside for a moment to hang it carefully over the chair. Just as Meg had, he kept his eyes on her face as he pulled off the long-sleeved thermal shirt. The pink tip of her tongue emerged, and she bit her lower lip in anticipation as first the khakis, then the rest of his underwear, joined the shirt in a heap on the floor. He stood looking down at her for a long moment until she bit her lip again, then he joined her on the bed, pulling her down to him and swallowing her little sound of surprise in a kiss.

Meg was wild for him. His skin felt white-hot, silken and feverish against her own, and as she opened her mouth to him, she wrapped her legs around him, wanting to bring him as close to her as possible. She still wore the cotton pants, and she made another small sound as his finger began to explore around their edges, finding and gently teasing the soft curls he found there. She wanted him to do more, and she moved her hips against him, reaching down to stroke him in turn, as their mouths stayed glued together in a single, endless kiss.

Finally, as though sensing her hurry, Ben left off teasing her and eased the panties off, throwing them aside and bringing the comforter over both of them with a single movement. They were locked in a hot, dark cocoon, shut entirely away, each with only the scent, taste, and feel of the other. Meg, unable to wait even a moment longer, tugged at him urgently before returning to kiss him again. She left no doubt at all about what she wanted. Ben, as eager as she, pulled her over to lie on top of him, fearful that he might smother her there in the dark covers.

Meg grasped him frantically, hearing his indrawn breath as she guided him deep within her. Both were covered in sweat, and their bodies seemed to melt together in the all-enveloping heat and darkness. She sought his mouth blindly as they moved together. His tongue seemed to mirror the long, deep thrusts that were bringing her closer to the edge with every passing moment.

Ben felt Meg's movements grow more convulsive as she clasped him more deeply inside her. He stilled his own body, and she came with a shout, calling his name again and again, shivering in his arms until she finally grew still. He felt her lips against his temple, the sensuous tickling of little strands of her hair, and then she moved again, pulling him over so that he lay on top of her and wrapping her legs as tightly as she could around him. The muscles deep inside her still throbbed as though urging him on, and he thrust again and again into her welcoming softness until his own release welled up, and he felt himself spilling his very soul into her, endlessly.

As Meg's breathing stilled, and her senses began to return to her, the first thing she felt was the odd coolness of a drop of sweat that dripped onto her shoulder from one of Ben's damp curls. He lay cradled in her arms, and his head was pillowed on her breast. He seemed to be asleep, and she enjoyed that idea, reaching out with a finger to stroke his hair.

Ben's eyes opened slowly, and he looked up at her with a lazy smile. "Will you never stop being in such a hurry?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied as she settled herself more comfortably against him. "There's something to be said for the occasional quickie, don't you think?" The air in the room seemed pleasantly cool on their warm skin.

He smiled again as she began to play with his hair again. "Whatever you say." He smiled again, a sweet smile that seemed to light up every corner of his face. Then he settled her in his arms, kissed her gently, and fell deeply asleep.

Ben only laughed. "You're hungry again." He brushed her lips with a finger before letting go of her, a little reluctantly, and getting out of bed. "I'll be back with provisions."

Meg laughed ruefully. "I don't know why it's doing that," she said, patting the offending stomach.

"Well, you've expended a lot of energy," he replied, laughing from the doorway. In a moment he had returned with two apples and a small, sharp knife. Settling himself in bed again, he began to cut slices from each apple, feeding her and taking a slice for himself by turns. When they had finished the first apple and begun on the second, they heard a sound from the street outside.

"The snow plow," Meg observed. "Finally."

She felt his muscles tense slightly, and when she looked up at him, something seemed to have gone out of his eyes. The apple and knife were forgotten in his hands. He drew a breath, then said lightly, "Well, I guess I'd better think about getting home."

"Ben, why? Didn't you say Mr. Mustafi . . " she began. Then she stopped, realizing that she might have her work cut out for her. She took the apple and knife from him and laid them on the nightstand. Then she took his face in both her hands and turned it gently towards her. "Ben, stay now. Stay as long as you like." She kissed him then, as hard as she could, and when they had finally kissed enough, she laid her head on his shoulder and went on. "Stay forever."

End Winter's Day by Josephine March: jo@pixelstationery.com

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