My Loving Family

Synopsis: Peter enjoys a lovely dinner and a wonderful dessert in Sarah's apartment where he spends the night.

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Chapter Nine

I returned to Ft. Resolution with terribly mixed emotions. On the one hand, I knew that no matter what happened next, Sarah Kincaide would always have a permanent place in my heart.

Instead of reading, I sat staring out the window of the coach seeing, instead of the passing scenery, nothing but a constant replay in my mind, over and over again, of the precious minutes and hours I had spent in Sarah's company and her bed.

It wasn't so much the sex, although I felt a pleasant tingle in my loins as I remembered how great sex with her had been, as it was a constant review of our conversation and a mental search for covert clues that might help determine her attitude and feelings toward me.

She had been friendly enough, but I was looking for something deeper, something special that I could keep with me in the days and weeks ahead because I didn't expect to see her again any time soon, and despite the fact that we had spent the night in each other's arms, I didn't feel I knew her well enough to begin a romantic correspondence. Those poignant memories faded during the following days and weeks as I worked with Jack, fighting the rapidly shortening hours of daylight and the steadily descending snow line on the surrounding hills in a rush to complete those essential tasks that had to be completed before freeze-up. It gets damned cold in that country during the winter, and human activity slows to a crawl.

Although most prospectors now used snowmobiles during the winter traveling to and from the creeks where they dug prospect holes looking for "color," Jack and I still relied on our dogteam.

Dogteams may be slow and require constant care, but they don't run out of gas or throw a track when their driver is 20 cold miles from the nearest warm bed. That meant that we also had to catch and dry hundreds of fish as trail rations to supplement the dried food we cooked into a hot mush for them every evening at our headquarters.

Our camp routine was interrupted in mid October when we received an urgent message from our factors, Bose, Rothchild and Gibbons in Winnipeg, requesting me to return to Winnipeg as soon as possible to discuss the details of our mining proposal with a representative of the London investment company who was flying to Winnipeg for that purpose.

I hastily packed my kit. Jack drove me to the train station the next morning, and the following morning I arrived in Winnipeg.

Jack probably thought my ill concealed joy to be returning to Winnipeg so soon was to close the deal so we'd be free to get on with our lives. He knew my heart wasn't really in the back-breaking labor real prospecting entailed, and I thought he might even be glad to be rid of me so he could find a more congenial partner.

As soon as I set foot in the big brick train station, I went directly to the bank of pay phones against the far wall and dialed Sarah's number. No answer. Of course! She would be at work by now. I called her office and was quickly put through to her.

"This is Sarah Kincaide. How may I help you?" At the sound of her voice, my heart began beating at twice its normal rate, and I found I was panting like a dog. My palms were slick with sweat and I felt moisture beading on my forehead. I even had difficulty speaking. "Hi," I croaked. "This is . . ." I paused, cursing myself for a fool as I tried to remember my name . . ."Pete . . .ahh, Pete Crockett. Remember me?"

"Well, hello, Pete. This is a surprise. I didn't expect to hear from you again so soon."

"I just got off the train. Mr. Bose wanted me to come in to iron out some details, and I was wondering . . ."

"Oh, Pete, I'm sorry. If only I had known . . . but I'm afraid I'm going to be busy tonight. . ."

"What about tomorrow night?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to see. Call me again around noon tomorrow, will you? I'd love to see you again."

Yeah, sure. My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. I was so disappointed, I almost felt like crying. But I tried to sound cheerful. "I understand, Sarah, short notice and all that . . ."

"I hope you do, Pete. I'm really looking forward to seeing you again; it's just that this is one engagement I can't break, but I wish I could. Call me tomorrow, please?"

She sounded sincere, and I immediately felt better. "I certainly will; you can count on it!" After checking into the hotel, I called Mr. Bose's office. His receptionist was expecting my call and told me a meeting was scheduled for that afternoon. I took off my shoes and gratefully stretched out on the bed for a short nap. It's well that I did.

Mr. Bose and a lanky young man were in his office when I arrived. "Pete, I'd like you to meet Ian Christy. Ian represents the London group. As I told you on the phone, we need to go over our proposal once again."

We shook hands. The minute Ian opened his mouth to say "G'day" which he pronounced "G'die," I knew he was an Australian. They have an accent that's unlike any other. He opened his briefcase and extracted a folder. For the next two hours, he questioned me not only about our claims, but also about the community, the availability of labor, transportation and many other pertinent matters. At the end, as we shook hands again, I suggested that since we were a couple of bachelors on the loose in the big city, that we might have dinner together.

Ian shook his head. "I'm sorry mate (which he pronounced "mite"), but I'm all tied up tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

As we turned to leave the office, Mr. Bose cleared his throat and said, "Pete, would you mind waiting a moment? There's something I need to ask."

I paused while Mr. Bose ushered Ian out of his office. Then he closed the door. "Mrs Bose -- Cynthia -- is very interested in the Yellowknife District. She asked me, if it was convenient, to invite you to supper at our house this evening. We'd like to get better acquainted, too."

I can't say I was eager to spend an entire evening in Mr. Bose's company, let alone in his company and that of woman like him, but since he knew I had no other plans, I couldn't think of a polite way to refuse, so I pretended enthusiasm and said, "Why that's very kind of you, Mr. Bose. What time and where?"

I envisioned a stately home in the country somewhere and was surprised to learn that he and Mrs. Bose lived in a penthouse apartment in a hotel at the other end of the block from my hotel. At the appointed hour, I was standing in the hall juggling a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers while I reached for the doorbell.

The door opened and at first I thought I must have the wrong apartment because Mr. Bose hadn't mentioned a daughter and the woman I saw was hardly more than a girl. A very lovely girl with long incurling silvery blonde hair resting just above her shoulders, a classic oval face, slightly slanted green eyes, and a generous, very kissable mouth with puffy lips brightly painted with lip gloss.

"You must be Mr. Crockett," she said with a welcoming smile. "Please come in."

Like the country lout I am, I thrust my burden of wine and flowers in her hands, mumbled something incoherent, and stumbled across the threshold.

She stood aside to let me pass, then turned and said, "Here, let me take these in the kitchen. Roscoe is on a long distance call just now, so please step into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

Apartment living rooms tend to be on the smallish size, and this one was no exception. The floor was covered with a colorful oriental rug. An overstuffed sofa was strategically placed against an inside wall so that people sitting on it could enjoy the twinkling city lights through the full length windows on the opposite wall. A matching chair was placed at an angle to the sofa so that a person sitting there could also enjoy the view while still facing whoever was on the sofa. A reading lamp and side table next to the chair, a coffee table between the chair and the sofa, and a large TV in the corner completed the furnishings.

I sat in the middle of the sofa since if Mr. Bose was like ninety-nine percent of the male population his age, the chair was probably his. Mrs. (or was it Miss?) Bose appeared in the doorway, walked across the room to the chair, and sat down.

Only then did I notice the long slit in her narrow skirt that opened it almost to her hip. I still wasn't sure whether I was dealing with a wife or a daughter until I noticed her wedding rings. She carefully arranged her skirt and managing at once to call my attention to the way her skirt was cut while at the same time concealing most of her exposed thigh. We studied each other for a brief moment.

I expect she saw a middle aged roughneck with a new haircut and a tie that didn't go with anything I was wearing. I, on the other hand, saw a beautiful young woman with a piquant smile wearing a brief red cocktail dress that seemed strangely out of place in a Bose household. I also thought I saw a wary look in her eyes, and a certain puzzling tension in the way she held herself.

Then she abruptly stood. "I'm sorry," she said. "Where are my manners? Can I get you a drink -- a cocktail perhaps? Dinner is still a few minutes away."

"A whisky/water would be just fine, Mrs. Bose."

She smiled. "Cynthia will do just fine, Mr. Crockett."

"In that case, Cynthia, my real name is Pete." Then as she turned, I studied her retreating figure. Her skirt undulated as she walked, betraying the play of her thigh, hip and butt muscles under the thin material. When she returned from the kitchen with a glass in each hand and bent over to place my drink in the center of the coffee table, she seemed oblivious as her decolletage gaped open, revealing two soft, white breasts. She was not wearing a bra.

My cock gave an involuntary twitch, and I hastily crossed my legs, hoping she hadn't noticed my physical reaction.

Just then Mr. Bose walked into the room. I began to stand, but he motioned me down. "We're informal here, Pete. I'm sorry I was tied up on the phone. I was talking with our English friends about our little project. I see Cynthia's been entertaining you . . ."

He abruptly turned to his wife. "Dear, would you mind fixing me a Martini?"

Then he sat in the chair his wife had vacated. "She's a pretty little thing, isn't she? I can see the question everyone asks on your face. Yes, Cynthia's my second wife. We're very much in love. It's wonderful to have someone like her to come home to after a long day at the office. She's a damned good cook, too. I think you're in for a treat!"

Mr. Bose lapsed into silence. I didn't know what to say, so we sat looking at one another until Cynthia returned bearing Mr. Bose's cocktail. I had drained my glass by that time, so she silently took it out of my hand and returned to the kitchen.

"This is a lovely apartment . . ." I ventured.

"It should be," Mr. Bose replied. God knows it costs enough!"

"But look at the time and money you save being able to walk to work," I said.

"Oh, it's convenient, all right. I'll certainly give you that."

We were interrupted by Cynthia's quiet return. As before, instead of handing the glass directly to me, she chose to place it on the coffee table a second time, thus exposing her bosom to a stranger in front of her husband! This time I knew it must be deliberate. What the hell?

As if to confirm my suspicions, she leveled her piercing green eyes on me as I involuntarily glanced down, secretly hoping to see the pink tips of her plump breasts, and she smiled, then winked.

Again, even as I shot a nervous glance toward Mr. Bose who was still sitting comfortably in the overstuffed chair, apparently oblivious to the clandestine message his young wife had just given me, I wondered how much of this was real? That is, was this gorgeous young woman so bereft of male company that anyone in pants who walked through their front door was fair game? Or was this a carefully arranged scenario planned by both of them to somehow compromise me, thus gaining an economic advantage in our mining negotiations?

A third possibility never occurred to me. My mind was busily attempting to process this unexpected bonus, as I remembered the erotic way her twin melons had quivered when she had displayed them to me. My cock gave another involuntary little lurch.

She sat next to me, just a little too close, on the couch. "I can serve dinner any time you gentlemen are ready," she said. I glanced at her and was shocked to see that the revealing slit in her skirt was gaping open and that her left sleek, silken thigh -- the one next to me -- was partly exposed all the way to the lacy top of her stocking. A hint of white skin appeared in the apex of the slit. My cock twitched again. I was almost afraid to look at her husband for fear he might have noticed her obvious display.

However, Mr. Bose seemed quite oblivious to his wife's odd behavior. Instead, he stood, saying, "I need to wash up. Go ahead, dear, I'll be right there."

As he turned to walk out of the room, his wife put her hand on my thigh, and as he disappeared in the hall, she said, "Like what you see so far? This is a little game Roscoe and I sometimes play. Don't worry. He's not going for a shotgun!" With that, she stood, but not before trailing her fingers gently over my erecting cock.

Again I admired the way her muscles caused her tight skirt to undulate across her ass. Unbidden, an adolescent expression popped into my mind: Like a sack full of wildcats!

Mr. Bose returned to the living room. "Would you like to wash up, Pete? The lavatory is just around the corner to your left. Come into the dining room when you're finished."

Then he turned and followed his wife out of the room. I waited until he was gone before I dared stand because I knew my partial erection would be immediately obvious to him. Once in the lavatory, I ran cold water over my hands until my skin was chilled, then opened my pants and brought my still stiff member out into the fresh air.

The combination of my cold wet hands and absence of further stimulation did the trick. I was able to pee a few drops, rinsed my hands again and walked into the dining room and into a scene I'm sure I'll never forget.

I was stunned! Cynthia -- it now seemed ridiculous to call her anything else -- had changed her clothes while I was in the bathroom. She was placing a soup tureen on the table as I approached. Then she turned. She now wore a very short miniskirt, a blouse that was almost transparent, her stockings and her high heeled shoes. Her small breasts, dark nipples and surrounding areola were clearly visible, even in the subdued dining room lighting. Her erect nipples made little tents in the front of her blouse, betraying her excitement as she smiled her welcome.

Mr. Bose chuckled at my obvious discomfort. "Cynthia told me you seemed willing to play our little game. I hope I haven't misjudged you, Pete! If I have . . ."

"Uhh, no, Mr. Bose . . ."

"I think, Pete, in the circumstances, that it would be more appropriate if you would address me as Roscoe. . ."

"Yessir, Mr. uh, Roscoe." Mentally, I was cursing myself for being such a country bumpkin; such a hick! Before I could further embarrass myself, Cynthia stepped in front of me and wrapped her warm, soft arms around my neck, putting her hands behind my head, and pressing her open, wet mouth against mine. Her tongue slid between my lips, and before I knew what was happening, I was returning her kiss, teasing her tongue with mine, and nibbling her lips. Her breasts were mashed against my chest, but the erotic memory of her perky nipples and the feel of her belly rubbing against me caused my cock to spring to full attention.

Then she stepped away. Even in the dim light, I could see that she was flushed, and was breathing rapidly. "I think he's ready to play, Roscoe," she said, as she reached down and openly fondled my erection.

Mr. Bose -- it's still hard for me to think of him as 'Roscoe' -- smiled. "All in good time, my dear," he said. "But now let's have dinner, before the food cools. It will only improve our appetite for dessert later."

My God! The man was unbelievable!

Cynthia obediently sat in a chair across the table from me. Roscoe sat at the end of the table facing us in profile. "Umm, this soup is delicious, dear," he said, as he spooned the last of it into his mouth. "Shall I open the wine?"

Cynthia mechanically carried the soup dishes away. Roscoe followed her into the kitchen and I heard the indistinct hum of their voices. Then he returned with an opened bottle of wine, and was immediately followed by his wife carrying two dinner plates, one of which she placed on the table in front of her husband, and the other before me.

As she leaned over me, her breast softly caressed my shoulder and she whispered in my ear, "Here's a surprise especially for you."

Puzzled, I turned and openly admired her breasts which swayed enticingly as she turned away and returned to the kitchen. When she came back into the dining room and realized how intently I was staring, her smile broadened and her walk became almost a stripper's strut.

The dinner was delicious. Rice covered with an especially pungent goulash -- almost a curry -- blanketed most of my plate. I was hungry, and dug in with great enthusiasm. I was so intent on the sensuous flavors in the goulash that I was momentarily surprised when I felt Cynthia's foot part my knees and her toe begin to caress my crotch. Then my fork snagged something buried in the rice. At first, I thought it was simply a piece of fabric that had somehow gotten mixed up with the rice, but then as I lifted it clear of my food, I realized it was a tiny black lace panty.

I looked up to see both Mr. Bose and his lovely young wife, her eyes sparkling with subdued amusement watch as I realized she had taken her panties off in the kitchen and buried them in the rice.

"We thought their unique flavor might improve your appetite for dessert," Mr. Bose said.

I responded by twisting my fork to wrap the tiny garment around the fork's tines, then slowly sucked the material into my mouth. "What a wonderful garnish," I said, this time speaking directly to Cynthia after I slowly withdrew it from between my pursed lips. Then I stood and walked around the table to her, leaned over, and gave her a warm, open mouthed kiss with plenty of tongue as my hand gently lifted and tested her breast's youthful resiliency while my thumb pressed against her aroused nipple.

Dinner was over. Cynthia briefly sucked on my tongue, then said, "Wait, lover. I know a better place for dessert." She rose and led the way back through the living room into the hall, and into a bedroom. "We call this our dessert room," she said.

Turning once again so she was facing me, she wrapped her arms around my neck, whispering, "Now where were we?" just she pressed her open, mouth against mine, offering her lips and tongue to my hungry, needing mouth. Our tongues were intertwined, and I savored the natural flavors of her mouth over the artificially perfumed scent and taste of the lip gloss with which she had caked her generous lips (and as I soon discovered, her nipples).

I was so absorbed by the taste of Cynthia's hot, wet mouth, the scent of her passion which seemed to envelop both of us, the feel of her hand stroking my face and of her body pressing against my hard erection that I failed to realize that Roscoe had slipped into the room behind us, and was now sitting in a chair watching as I made love to his wife.

Cynthia stepped back and began to unbutton my shirt even as I shrugged out of my jacket and slid my tie off. Then, while I was still struggling out of my shirt, crossing her arms in the single fluid motion that all women seem to master at a very young age, but which is utterly beyond the ken of men, Cynthia removed her transparent blouse, and crushed her naked breasts against my bare chest while throwing her arms around my neck again, pulling my head down for another hot, wet open mouthed kiss.