Cabin Snowstorm Claims Her Young Fan

The wind howled like a living thing outside the heavy timber walls, driving snow sideways against the windows in thick, blinding sheets. Elena Voss stood at the kitchen island with a glass of merlot in her hand, wearing nothing but an oversized cream sweater that barely reached mid-thigh and thick wool socks. The fire crackled loudly in the stone hearth, the only real light besides the single lamp beside her favorite reading chair. At forty-two, she had long ago stopped pretending her body was anything but lush and carnal. Heavy breasts strained the soft knit, her wide hips and thick ass filled out the fabric in ways that made her feel powerful rather than self-conscious.

A frantic knock shattered the quiet.

Elena set the wine down, heart suddenly racing. No one came up this mountain road in a blizzard. She grabbed the heavy iron poker out of habit and cracked the door.

A young man stood on her porch, half-frozen, snow caked in his dark hair and lashes. His lips were blue, his black coat crusted white. He clutched a sodden messenger bag to his chest like it was precious.

“Ms. Voss?” His voice cracked from the cold. “I—I’m so sorry. My car died about a mile down the road. The signing in town… I was trying to get there and the GPS sent me up the wrong fork. I saw your lights. I didn’t know where else—”

Elena’s pulse gave a filthy little kick when she recognized him.