Cabin Fever Claims the Milf Author

The wind howled like a rejected lover outside the sturdy log walls of the cabin, driving snow sideways in blinding sheets. Inside, Vanessa Vale was curled in her favorite oversized armchair with a glass of merlot, laptop balanced on her thighs, typing the latest filthy chapter of her upcoming bestseller. At forty-two, she had the kind of body that made readers assume she was lying about her age: full, heavy breasts that still defied gravity when she wanted them to, a soft but strong waist that flared into wide, fertile hips, and long auburn hair she usually kept twisted up with a pencil. The fire crackled merrily, casting golden light across her silk robe that kept slipping open at the thigh.

A sudden pounding on the front door made her jump hard enough to nearly spill her wine.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, setting the laptop aside. No one was supposed to be up here. The road had been closed for hours.

She padded barefoot to the door, cinching the robe tighter, and opened it to a blast of arctic air and a half-frozen young man who looked like he’d been coughed up by the storm itself.

“Hi—sorry—my car died about a mile back,” he said through chattering teeth. Snow clung to his dark hair and lashes. “I saw the lights. I’m not a serial killer, I swear. I’m just really cold and really screwed.”

Vanessa’s first coherent thought was: Well, hello, plot twist.

Her second was far less coherent and involved the way his soaked sweater clung to broad shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.

She arched an eyebrow, lips curving. “You picked the right pornographic novelist’s cabin to break down at, sweetheart. Come in before your balls freeze off.”

The young man blinked, then laughed nervously as he stepped inside. “You’re… Vanessa Vale? The Vanessa Vale?”

“The one and only.” She shut the door against the blizzard and turned to find him staring at her like she’d materialized from one of her own books. “Ethan, right? You emailed me last month about wanting to shadow a working writer for your MFA thesis. I told you the cabin was private.”

His ears went scarlet. “You remember that?”

“I remember every fan who quotes my filth back to me with proper MLA citations.” She grinned, wicked and warm at once. “Take those wet clothes off before you ruin my hardwood. There’s a blanket on the couch. I’ll get you something hot.”

While Ethan stripped down to a damp T-shirt and boxers, blushing furiously, Vanessa poured him a generous mug of spiked cocoa and tried not to stare too obviously at the long, athletic legs and the intriguing shape already pressing against damp cotton. The boy was hung. And adorably awkward about it.