Cabin Snowstorm Claims Her Young Fan

The wind howled like a living thing outside the heavy timber walls, driving snow sideways against the windows in thick, blinding sheets. Elena Voss stood at the kitchen island with a glass of merlot in her hand, wearing nothing but an oversized cream sweater that barely reached mid-thigh and thick wool socks. The fire crackled loudly in the stone hearth, the only real light besides the single lamp beside her favorite reading chair. At forty-two, she had long ago stopped pretending her body was anything but lush and carnal. Heavy breasts strained the soft knit, her wide hips and thick ass filled out the fabric in ways that made her feel powerful rather than self-conscious.

A frantic knock shattered the quiet.

Elena set the wine down, heart suddenly racing. No one came up this mountain road in a blizzard. She grabbed the heavy iron poker out of habit and cracked the door.

A young man stood on her porch, half-frozen, snow caked in his dark hair and lashes. His lips were blue, his black coat crusted white. He clutched a sodden messenger bag to his chest like it was precious.

“Ms. Voss?” His voice cracked from the cold. “I—I’m so sorry. My car died about a mile down the road. The signing in town… I was trying to get there and the GPS sent me up the wrong fork. I saw your lights. I didn’t know where else—”

Elena’s pulse gave a filthy little kick when she recognized him.

Ryan. Screen name “HungryReader22.” The twenty-two-year-old college senior whose comments under her raunchiest chapters had kept her fingers busy for months. The one who wrote long, shameless paragraphs about how hard her words made him cum. She had touched herself to those comments more times than she would ever admit.

And now here he was—tall, broad-shouldered, boyishly handsome despite the frost on his cheeks—literally on her doorstep like some dirty fantasy delivered by the storm.

“Come inside before you die,” she said, voice lower and smokier than she intended. She pulled him in, kicked the door shut against the screaming wind, and locked it.

Ryan stood dripping on her rug, teeth chattering. His eyes widened as they traveled over her: the heavy swell of bare thighs beneath the sweater, the deep valley of cleavage where the neckline had slipped, the way her nipples had already tightened into obvious peaks against the soft wool. He tried to look away. Failed.

Elena felt a hot pulse between her legs.

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes before you catch your death,” she murmured, already reaching for the zipper of his coat. Her fingers brushed his chest. He was solid. Young. She could smell the cold on him and something warmer underneath—something male and hungry.

Ten minutes later Ryan sat on the wide leather couch in nothing but a thick blanket and a pair of her ex-husband’s old sweatpants that clung obscenely to his thighs. Elena had dried his hair with a towel, letting her breasts brush his shoulder more than once. She poured him a large glass of the same rich merlot and settled beside him, one leg tucked under her so the hem of her sweater rode dangerously high.

The fire painted everything in warm gold and flickering shadow.