Blizzard Traps Author With Her Milf Lust

The wind howled like a living thing outside the heavy timber walls, driving snow sideways in blinding sheets. Elena Voss stood at the tall window of her mountain cabin, silk robe clinging to her full hips, a mug of coffee warming her hands. At forty-two she had learned exactly what her body could do to men, and she had written twelve bestselling filthy novels about it. The blizzard had turned the world white and silent for three days now. She hadn’t expected another soul until spring.

A sharp metallic crunch cut through the roar of the storm. Headlights swung wildly, then disappeared below the ridge. Elena’s pulse jumped. She set the mug down, pulled the robe tighter around her heavy breasts, and stepped onto the covered porch just as a broad-shouldered figure fought his way up the drifted path.

Jake Thompson, her regular mailman, staggered onto the porch steps, uniform soaked through, cap plastered to his dark hair. Snow clung to his lashes. At twenty-four he looked carved from hard work and mountain winters—wide chest, thick arms, strong jaw clenched against the cold. His government-issue pants were molded to powerful thighs and, Elena noticed instantly, to the unmistakable heavy ridge of a cock already half-hard from the adrenaline and the cold.

“Truck slid off the road half a mile back,” he said, voice low and rough. “Cell service is dead. I saw your lights. Mrs. Voss, I’m sorry to—”

“Elena,” she corrected, stepping aside. “And you’re not going anywhere tonight, Jake. Get inside before you freeze that pretty cock off.”

His eyes flared at her words. She felt the raw jolt of it between her legs, a sudden hot throb that made her nipples tighten against the silk. She had been alone too long, fingers and toys no longer enough. The sight of this young, strong male dripping on her floor woke every filthy hunger she wrote about but rarely fed.

Jake stamped snow from his boots, eyes tracking the deep valley of her cleavage where the robe had already slipped. “You sure? I don’t want to impose.”

Elena let the robe loosen another inch. The heavy inner curves of her tits spilled into view, soft and warm in the firelight. “You’re imposing on a woman who writes ten thousand words a day about getting fucked senseless. Trust me, Jake, you’re not an imposition. You’re a gift.”

She turned and walked toward the massive stone fireplace, feeling his stare on the sway of her ass. The silk whispered against her thick thighs with every step. By the time she poured two generous measures of whiskey into fresh coffee, Jake had stripped off his soaked jacket. His uniform shirt clung transparently to carved abs and wide pecs. The bulge at his crotch had grown thicker, more insistent.