Winter's Day      Winter's Day

 by Josephine March

  

 Author's website: http://www.racinestreet.pixelstationery.com

 Disclaimer: 

 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: 

 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.  Meg
stirred and woke with a sharp pang of desire, turning towards what she now
regarded instinctively as Ben's side of the bed. She gave a little sigh of
disappointment when she realized he was gone. The unmistakable sound of a
snow shovel reassured her that he had gone out, as he had intended, to
deal with the front walk. She buried her face in his pillow, unwilling to
let go just yet of the pleasant stirrings that had awakened her. 

 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.  The
smell of coffee greeted Ben as he opened the door, and he pulled of his
coat, boots, and socks quickly. Meg watched him from her place on the
couch with a look made of equal parts amusement and frank appreciation. 

 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."  Meg insisted
that Ben have a second cup of coffee while she took care of the dishes. He
watched her work, deciding that she looked better in jeans and a flannel
shirt than any woman had a right to. He wanted nothing more than to take
her to bed, right now, and spend the rest of the day there with her. 

 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.	When Meg woke again to Ben's kisses, she felt a little
disoriented. The room seemed to be bathed in twilight, though she felt she
had slept for a long time. As she wrapped her arms around him, her stomach
growled again, just as it had the night before, and she blushed and put
her hand to her mouth. 

 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

Author and story notes above.