Cabin Fever Claims the Milf Author

The wind howled like a rejected lover outside the sturdy log walls of the cabin, driving snow sideways in blinding sheets. Inside, Vanessa Vale was curled in her favorite oversized armchair with a glass of merlot, laptop balanced on her thighs, typing the latest filthy chapter of her upcoming bestseller. At forty-two, she had the kind of body that made readers assume she was lying about her age: full, heavy breasts that still defied gravity when she wanted them to, a soft but strong waist that flared into wide, fertile hips, and long auburn hair she usually kept twisted up with a pencil. The fire crackled merrily, casting golden light across her silk robe that kept slipping open at the thigh.

A sudden pounding on the front door made her jump hard enough to nearly spill her wine.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, setting the laptop aside. No one was supposed to be up here. The road had been closed for hours.

She padded barefoot to the door, cinching the robe tighter, and opened it to a blast of arctic air and a half-frozen young man who looked like he’d been coughed up by the storm itself.

“Hi—sorry—my car died about a mile back,” he said through chattering teeth. Snow clung to his dark hair and lashes. “I saw the lights. I’m not a serial killer, I swear. I’m just really cold and really screwed.”

Vanessa’s first coherent thought was: Well, hello, plot twist.