Snowbound Cabin Surrender to Her Milf Author

The wind howled like a living thing outside the remote cedar cabin, driving snow sideways against the windows in thick, blinding sheets. Elena Voss stood at the kitchen island in nothing but a thin white tank top that clung to her heavy, braless breasts and a pair of tiny black silk shorts that barely covered the generous lower curve of her ass. At forty-two, the bestselling erotica author still had the kind of body that made men stupid: thick thighs, wide hips, a soft belly that spoke of comfort and pleasure, and a pair of heavy tits that swayed with every movement. Her dark chestnut hair was piled messily on top of her head, and her full lips were painted a deep, cock-sucking red even though she’d had no plans to see another soul for days.

A sharp knock rattled the front door.

Elena froze, mug of tea halfway to her lips. No one came out here. Especially not in a blizzard like this. She padded barefoot across the hardwood, peered through the frosted sidelight, and felt her stomach flip.

A young man stood on her porch, soaked to the bone, shivering violently. Snow clung to his dark hair and broad shoulders. Even half-frozen he was stupidly handsome, square-jawed with bright, feverish green eyes. Recognition slammed into her like a second storm.

Ryan.

The same Ryan who’d been sending her increasingly deranged, deliciously filthy fan letters for the past fourteen months. The ones that detailed exactly how he wanted to fold her over every surface in her fictional mansions and fuck her until she couldn’t remember her own name. The ones that made her touch herself in the dark after she read them.

She opened the door.

“Holy shit,” Ryan breathed, teeth chattering. “It’s really you. Elena Voss. I—I’m so sorry, my car slid off the road about a mile down the mountain. Phone’s dead. I saw the lights and… Jesus, you’re even more perfect in person.”

Elena’s pulse thundered between her legs. The thin silk of her shorts was already growing damp.

“Get inside before you die on my doorstep, Ryan,” she said, voice low and smoky. She knew his name. Of course she knew his name. She’d read every single letter twice.

He stumbled in, dripping all over her floor. Elena shut the blizzard out and turned to find him staring at her like she was a goddess who’d just stepped out of one of her own books. His gaze dropped helplessly to the way her hard nipples poked against the thin white fabric, then lower, to the smooth expanse of thick thigh visible beneath the silk hem.

“You’re freezing,” she murmured, stepping close enough that he could smell her—warm skin, vanilla, and something darker, something feminine and aroused. “Come by the fire. I’ll get you dry.”

She led him into the open living room where a massive stone fireplace roared. Ryan peeled off his soaked hoodie and T-shirt with shaking hands, revealing a lean, athletic torso still glistening with melted snow. Elena grabbed a thick wool blanket from the couch and began rubbing him down without asking permission. Her hands moved over his chest, his arms, his back. Every touch felt electric.

“You know who I am,” he said quietly, watching her face.