Snowbound Cabin Delivery for the Milf

I’m Elena Voss, and for the last fourteen months I have been slowly losing my mind over the same delivery driver.

The first time Jax knocked on my door I was halfway through drafting Moon-Bound MILF, fingers sticky from the lube I’d used while writing the knotting scene. I answered in an old cardigan and yoga pants, hair in a messy bun, and nearly dropped my coffee. He was twenty-two, broad-shouldered, golden-skinned even in the dead of winter, with a shy half-smile that made the pulse between my thighs throb like a second heartbeat. He smelled like pine, snow, and something darker—something unmistakably male and wild. I thanked him, signed for the box of wine and groceries, and spent the rest of the night with my vibrator buried deep while I pictured his face between my legs.

Tonight the mountain is being buried alive by the worst blizzard in a decade. Wind howls against the heavy timber walls of my cabin like a living thing. I’m wearing nothing but a champagne-colored silk robe that clings to every curve I’ve earned at forty-two—full, heavy breasts that sway when I walk, wide hips, and an ass that still turns heads. The silk is so thin my nipples are already stiff against the fabric, aching. I’ve been pacing in front of the fireplace for twenty minutes, journal open on the coffee table, wine glass in hand, when the security camera chimes.

He’s here.

I open the door before he can knock. The storm rushes in, snow swirling around us, but all I see is Jax standing on my porch in nothing but an unzipped insulated jacket hanging open over bare skin. His abs are carved marble dusted with melting flakes. Lower, the thick, heavy outline of his cock strains obscenely against faded denim, the fat head clearly visible where the zipper has given up. His chest rises and falls too fast, like he’s been running.

“Ms. Voss,” he says, voice low and rough. Snow clings to his dark lashes. “Your monthly supply box. I… I couldn’t leave it on the porch. Wind would’ve taken it.”

My eyes drag over every inch of him. The robe slips open another inch without my permission, baring the inner curve of one breast. I don’t fix it.

“Come inside, Jax. Before you freeze.”

He hesitates only a second, then steps over the threshold. I close the heavy door behind him, shutting the storm out. The sudden quiet is intimate. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and the wet thud of his boots on the rug.

I can feel how wet I already am. The scent of my own arousal is thick in the warm cabin air; I know he can smell it. Werewolf noses don’t lie.