Cabin Fever
"A booking error puts him in the same cabin as a woman traveling alone. When a blizzard traps them for three days, body heat becomes more than a survival tactic."
The cabin had one bed.
"There must be a mistake," I said, staring at my phone. The confirmation clearly showed this cabin, these dates.
"No mistake." The woman behind me had the same confirmation on her screen. "I booked this two months ago."
"So did I."
We looked at each other. She was maybe fifty—auburn hair with gray streaks, green eyes, a wry smile. And a body that her winter coat couldn't hide—thick, curvy, the kind of figure that filled doorways.
"Evelyn," she said, extending her hand.
"Tyler."
"Well, Tyler." She looked out the window. Snow was falling harder by the minute. "Looks like we're not going anywhere tonight."
The first night was awkward.
One bed, so I took the couch. One bathroom, so we established a schedule. One kitchen, so we made dinner together—pasta and wine and stilted conversation.
"I'm here to escape my life," she admitted over her second glass. "Divorce finalizing next month. Needed to breathe."
"I'm here to figure out mine. Quit my job, sold my apartment. No plan."
"Sounds liberating."
"Sounds terrifying." I refilled her glass. "What went wrong? With your marriage?"
"Twenty-five years of nothing going wrong. Nothing going right either." She stared into the wine. "We were roommates who shared a bed. Then we were roommates who didn't."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not." She looked up, and something shifted in her expression. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"Sure."
"Why did you keep looking at me? At the door, in the kitchen. You keep... looking."
"Because you're beautiful."
She laughed—bitter, dismissive. "I'm fifty-two. I'm twenty pounds overweight. I'm—"
"Beautiful." I held her gaze. "And I've been trying not to stare all night."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"The couch is uncomfortable," she said finally. "The bed is big enough for two."
"Evelyn—"
"Just sleeping. I promise." She stood. "Come on. I don't bite."
I followed her to the bedroom.
I shouldn't have.
The second night, the power went out.
The blizzard had turned into a proper storm. Wind howled. Snow piled against the windows. The temperature inside dropped fast.
"There's a fireplace," Evelyn said. "And extra blankets. We'll be fine."
We built a fire. Piled blankets on the bed. Climbed in together.
This time, there was no pretense of space.
"You're cold," I said. She was shivering beside me.
"Freezing."
"Come here." I pulled her against me. Her back to my chest. My arm around her waist. "Body heat."
"Is this appropriate?"
"No." I could smell her hair—something floral, fading. "But it's warm."
She relaxed into me. Her ass pressed against my lap. I was hard instantly—I couldn't help it—and I knew she felt it.
"Tyler..."
"I'm sorry. I can't—"
"Don't apologize." She pressed back harder. "I haven't felt wanted in years. Let me feel it."
We lay there, her ass against my cock, my hand on her stomach. Neither of us sleeping. Both of us breathing too hard.
"This is torture," she whispered.
"I know."
"We should stop."
"I know."
She turned in my arms. Faced me. Her lips inches from mine.
"Fuck it," she said.
She kissed me.
It was like a dam breaking.
Months of her loneliness, years of her neglect—all of it pouring into me. She kissed like she was starving, and I kissed back like I wanted to feed her forever.
"Off," she gasped, pulling at my shirt. "All of it off."
We stripped under the blankets—clumsy, desperate, laughing when we got tangled. And then she was naked against me, and I was naked against her, and the cold didn't matter anymore.
Her body was incredible. Heavy breasts pressed to my chest. Wide hips under my hands. Thick thighs wrapping around me as I rolled on top of her.
"Please," she begged. "I need—I need—"
I pushed inside her.
She was tight. So fucking tight.
Years of neglect hadn't changed that. If anything, it made her more sensitive—she gasped at every inch, moaned at every movement.
"Oh god—oh god—" Her nails dug into my back. "You feel—fuck—you feel amazing—"
I moved slowly at first. Deep strokes that made her cry out. Her thick body shook beneath me.
"Harder," she begged.
I gave her harder. The bed slammed against the wall. The fire crackled. The storm raged outside, and we raged inside, two strangers fucking like the world was ending.
"Yes—yes—don't stop—"
She came screaming. I followed, emptying myself inside her with a groan that echoed through the cabin.
The storm lasted three days.
We spent most of it in bed.
Sometimes we talked—about our lives, our regrets, our fears. Sometimes we cooked together, ate by the fire, pretended we were normal people on a normal trip.
Mostly we fucked. Morning and night. Slow and tender. Hard and desperate. Every position we could manage in that old bed.
"This can't be real," she said on the third night. "Things like this don't happen."
"And yet here we are."
"Here we are." She traced a finger down my chest. "What happens when the snow clears?"
"I don't know." I pulled her closer. "What do you want to happen?"
"I want to keep feeling this way." She looked up at me. "I want to feel wanted. I want to feel alive."
"Then come with me."
"What?"
"I told you—no plan. No destination. Just driving until I figure things out." I kissed her forehead. "Drive with me."
"That's insane."
"So is this." I gestured at the cabin, the bed, us. "But here we are."
The snow cleared on day four.
We packed our bags. Looked at each other. Made a decision.
Her car stayed at the cabin. She got in mine.
We've been driving for six months now. North to Alaska. South to Mexico. East, west, wherever the road takes us.
People ask if we're married. We say yes. It's easier than explaining.
Some nights we stay in motels, and she rides me until we're both exhausted. Some nights we sleep in the car, tangled together for warmth.
I don't know where we're going.
I know I'm not going alone.
The storm brought us together.
I'm not letting go.