Page 48 of Wicked

After another great hour, hedistractsme, again. I huff, shake my head and pace. I force myself to sit, center my scattered energy, and I dig back in.

I find flow state again, and I polish and rewrite ferociously fast. For the next few hours, I’m in the zone, and I add key sections, elevate passages, and words somehow stream from me.

I push on until lunch, then I break for the bread, cheese, roasted chicken, and wine Maria has wrangled for me.

I made a nutty request earlier when she popped up asking about lunch.

I want to imitate timeless Italian masters, and I want to eat what they did. Even if they were more artists than writers, I want to experience what they experienced.

Being in the same nation as Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Botticelli, and Pavarotti is inspiring, and I feel something in my blood.

As I finish lunch, Maria returns, and we discuss writing, life, and Italy. She laughs at my kooky mind, and I smile, not knowing any different.

As we talk on, I learn about her life in the cute Tuscan village. She really is a wonderful woman. She is also uncomplicated, timeless, and gentle.

Maria mentions the horses around rural Tuscany, and she asks if I’ve ridden. I tell her I grew up in Virginian horse country, and that as a teen, I rode weekly.

I even jumped in competitions, but only at the county and state level.

Maria reminds me it’s a perfect day out, and she points to a horse in a field above the dunes. As I lean out the villa’s arched window, I see the lovely chestnut. It has a long mane and tail, and they are lighter than her brown body. “You can ride her, bella. We call her Olive. She’s gentle.”

My lips curl up. It’s just what I need!

I find the bridle, then I water and saddle sweet Olive. Maria shows me the path down to the beach, and she explains a possible loop-like ride.

As I ride Olive along the beach, I listen to the sound of the sea. I inhale the fresh salty air while I talk to the soft mare and tell her she’s beautiful. We canter along the water edge, her golden mane and tail flying.

Ifeel more alive. Yet calmer than I have for some time.

I guess it’s because there are fewer people around, and there are fewer life complications like in modern NYC.

As I ride on, I try not to think of the bath or him. I do not do well, but I do find a way from the beach up through the rocks near the cliff. It’s under Dante’s family castle, and it’s likely near where he is.

As I follow the hillside path, I head higher and higher toward the beautiful cliff-side fortress. The bike on road visit was easier, but the dramatic, cliff climb is invigorating and exciting.

Finally, we reach the top, and we enter what must be the castle estate. I worry about intruding, then realize if Dante gets angry, he may want to punish me.

The idea of him pulling my panties down and spanking my butt makes my clit throb again. I shake my head at the thought, then I catch sight of Dante working outside.

His shirt is off, and he’s covered in sweat. As I gulp and ride forwards, I rock backwards and forwards on the large horse below.

I watch Dante and his warrior-like body, unseen. I imagine rocking backwards and forwards on him, and it’s bad. Like my thoughts.

19

DANTE

I adjust the ornate gate, and a coat of sweat covers me. As I wipe my brow, I hear, “Hello, the house!”

I see the crazy woman ride up, and I look down the cliff path. I cannot believe she just rode up it. Very few have ever done it, and she is either a darned good rider, crazy, or both.

As she rides up, I stare into the bright sun towards her.

“I didn’t know you could ride.”

“I’m pretty good in the saddle,” she says, leaping down. I try not to smile, and I shake my head. Before I can say something, she jumps in. “Look, am I disturbing you?”

I shake my head and stand the old iron gate up. I grab my phone and shirt, and I head along the castle’s outer wall and around a tennis court.

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