Page 25 of Wicked

I’ve always wanted to be a professional, full-time, and serious writer, but I’ve never had the time ormadethe time to do it.

Working full time editing other people’s work and coming home to write my own novel is not the best. One day, I’ll have to do something drastic to get away from editing and head more towards writing a hundred percent of the time. First, I need to cut loose the bind that ties me to my boring day job, and that requires discipline and a week of sweat.

I want to write real novels, not polish travel articles or do brand related stuff.

And like my mother’s novel—I want to create connective statements about people and their extraordinary lives.

I want to inspire, I want to support, and I want to uplift. I want to craft perfect stories for people to soak up, like, and to connect with, like little bursts of pure energy in the universe.

Or like rough fingers circling a wanting clit.

As I gulp at the thought, I think of him and his eyes.

I shake the thought from my stupid mind, and I put my mother’s novel at my side. The book acts as inspiration, andit is the crinkled copy I’ve had since I was ten. It has gone everywhere with me, apart from on worthless dates.

I dig inand I polish the novel. I work fast, and I’m focused with renewed energy. Even if I’m not yet in perfect flow, I move with focus, calm, and grace.

As Maria cooks an Italian pasta in the villa, the stunning smells waft around. I can also hear opera music, and I could not be happier or more content.

Maria brings me a light lunch, then I write until the end of the day.

Finally, I look up, and Maria smiles down at me. We talk about dinner, and minutes later, a stunning wine and meal are in front of me.

“You will be on your own tonight, bella. Dante is working up at castle late. He said to start without him. Oh, and best you not leave your bath too late. If anyone has big bath, the next bath… cold. The villa hundreds of years old if you remember.”

I nod, remembering the water warning this morning. “Si, grazie,” I say, trying to fit in. “That’s good to know and thank you for a beautiful meal.”

Maria smiles and heads off. “My pleasure, bella. Just-a call if you need anything!”

The village hotel with no menu options and no other customers is perfect for me. Zero distractions. Zero time lost.

As I eat the home-cooked pasta, more opera music flows, and I beam.

The fresh bread, pasta, salad, and wine are perfect, and I could not be in a better place.

I contemplate how the universe works and how it has brought me here and now. How crashing the car has oddly opened a door I wasn’t expecting.

It is strange to consider, and even more strange to try and break the code, and work out how the universe operates!

My book has small things like this in it, and one day I’d love to know how life really moves, how it all fits together.

After the perfecttiramisu Italian desert, I find Maria preparing more bread for tomorrow. I thank her and change in my suite. Naked, I wrap a towel around me, and I run along the hall into the bathroom. After closing the door, I hang up my towel and turn.

My eyes pop, and I scream.

Dante is laying in the bath with a Campari, and his thick cock is visible just under the water. I grab for my towel but drop it.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He says nothing, and he does not appear phased. As I scramble to cover my lady parts, I see red in anger.

I keep my breasts and folds from him, but my butt is completely visible. I spin angrily, and I stare at the door handle and door lock, or the lack of a lock.

“No lock, old school,” Dante says huskily. “Likely wise to knock before you enter someone’s… space.” Dante then raises a brow. “It is considered respectful to ask before coming inside fast and hard.”

I cannot believe he just said that.

I blush and mumble low before I catch myself, “Bastardo.” I pout, consider his words again, and double blink. Filthy arrogant brute.

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