Cabin Snowed In With The Milf Ranger

I’m Elena Voss, and this is the part I’ll never publish.

The cabin smelled of pine resin, old smoke, and the faint vanilla of the candle I’d lit beside my laptop. Snow hissed against the windows like a thousand tiny tongues. I’d come here to finish The Wolf’s Claim, the book my editor swore would be my filthiest yet. Instead I was staring at a blinking cursor and a half-empty glass of cabernet while the storm buried the only road down the mountain.

A sharp knock rattled the door.

I opened it to six-foot-four of pure, snow-dusted trouble. Park Ranger Caleb Shaw filled the frame, shoulders straining against a dark green uniform jacket, golden eyes glowing with that unmistakable shifter fire. His dark hair was dusted white, and the stubble along his jaw looked rough enough to leave marks. Twenty-four years old, according to the badge, but the way he carried himself said he’d already learned exactly how to use that young, powerful body.

“Ma’am. Just checking on you before the worst of it hits. Roads are closed. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a few days.” His voice was low, rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. Those eyes dropped—slow, shameless—to the deep V of my cream sweater where my heavy breasts pressed together, then lower to the curve of my hips in tight black yoga pants. He inhaled, nostrils flaring, and I knew he could smell me.

I’d been wet since the moment I opened the door.

I stepped back, pulse hammering. “Then you’d better come in, Ranger. I have whiskey.”

He stamped snow from his boots and closed the door behind him. The cabin suddenly felt far too small.

We ended up on the rug in front of the stone fireplace, a bottle of good rye between us. The fire painted shifting gold across the hard planes of his face. I watched the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the thick cords of his neck, the way his big hands cradled the glass like he was imagining cradling something softer. My journal lay open on the arm of the couch where I’d been scribbling earlier—raw, confessional sentences I never meant for anyone else to read.

It’s been four years since a man made me come so hard I forgot my own name. Four years since anyone looked at this forty-two-year-old body like it was worth devouring. And now this young wolf is looking at me like I’m prey.

Caleb’s gaze flicked to the journal, then back to me. “You’re Elena Voss. The writer.”