Page 12 of Wicked (Wicked Billionaires #2)

RAVEN

After eating the cooked Italian breakfast with amazing Italian coffee, I return to the suite and consider my options. I need to plan, and I want to complete the draft of the Italian travel article ASAP.

Crafting it to make Italy seem plain or dull, as per the brief, feels weird and wrong. Delivering it, even if I don’t agree with the concept, is oddly my job.

I’ve come to not like Italy and its traditions, architecture, landscapes, and culture. I have come to adore it.

The people are also spectacular, all except for one grumpy, arrogant bastard and his shocking manner.

I decide to write a positive article on Italy, as a second version in a day or two, and I hope they use it instead of the damning version.

As I settle in the villa’s dining room with my daypack, notepad, and laptop, I focus on my last polish of the negative article.

I gloss over it again and again, and I’m finally satisfied.

It is short, sharp, and to the point. Feeling calm and knowing the article is tight, I hit send, and it is shot off to my boss, the Overlord.

I toss gear in my day pack, and I walk along the village’s main street. Fresh air is what is needed. There are only a dozen small shops, and few cars and people around. It really is a great location and perfectly quiet to write.

I pass a gentle older dog under an olive tree, and we eye each other with caution. He is shaggy, black-haired, and he has a kind face.

As I stroll around the village, I see my crashed red rental. I decide to deal with it in a few days, and I walk on.

For whatever reason, I feel inspired to write, and far more than ever. I guess it’s the new sights, smells, and the new sensations. And being in a land of such creativity, and history.

The village is perfect for completing my novel, and there will be no distractions at all. Not even him.

There and then, I decide to take the week off work to finish my novel. The novel I started years ago, before my current dull day job.

The week will allow me to complete it, once and for all!

After running excitedly along the road, I find Maria in her apron inside the villa.

“I’d love to stay a week if that’s okay. I’m going to write!”

Maria grins, the smell of olive oil and fresh bread in the air. “Bravo, bella. I will book you in!”

I yell happily, and I run up the old wooden stairs.

It doesn’t take long to move my things from the arrogant grump’s suite into my own, and it is a nearly identical room. Sitting, I write and leave a message for the brute.

Sir!

Thank you for saving my soul and not penetrating me. I believe it is bad form to sleep with the help, so I doubt I will see you again. Good luck with your caretaking job, and I bid you farewell.

I slip my old fashion note under his door with a grin, finally feeling free of the rogue. I sit in the villa’s old-fashioned dining room, and I think about my novel.

As the fire crackles, I stare at the beach in the distance. I have my laptop, notepad, a half-completed novel draft, and my mom’s first novel as inspiration.

I am in heaven, but before I dig in, I want to clear all my admin. I message Parker in NYC, and I keep it short.

Staying in Italy for novel. At coast for a week. Send dating adventure details as they unfold. Love, The Virgin

I have just leaned back to get into my writing when Parker messages back.

Get some!

I laugh, sigh, and type fast.

As if!

My phone chimes fast, and I look down.

And come home soon. Miss you at yoga and happy hour!

More messages then come in.

Not that I miss you…

Much…

At all!

I smile, look down at my novel, and sigh.

The novel is slightly personal, and it relates to how people move through life and how the universe is almost like a flowing river.

A meandering river of energy with paths crossing and people going through all kinds of things.

It touches on people’s lives intertwining, and like time, everything moves forwards. I also touch on fate and destiny.

For whatever reason, it is oddly an enjoyable time for me here in this village. Also, a good time to finish it, once and for all.

I’ve always wanted to be a professional, full-time, and serious writer, but I’ve never had the time or made the 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, and it is the crinkled copy I’ve had since I was ten. It has gone everywhere with me, apart from on worthless dates.

I dig in and 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 perfect tiramisu 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.

I try to act unflustered, but it’s too late. He must have also read my note.

After walking to the window, I pace slow to kill time. Trying to not look at the rogue and his perfect olive-skinned body is hard. At least he is now using the washcloth to cover his thick… cock.

I attempt to appear chill and calm as he lays there silently. It’s hard.

I cannot see his entire body, or his junk, because soap bubbles sit on top of the water. Some kind of masculine pine and cinnamon smell wafts, and it’s perfect, unlike him.

“Campari and soda?” he asks, his eyes now closed. His head moves toward a side table, with a familiar bottle of Campari. Two cute soda water bottles are on it.

“Si, grazie,” I say, trying to sound sophisticated and cultured.

As I crouch in my towel and pour, I wonder if he saw my breasts, or even more. There is no way he could not have seen me.

I have not shaven for weeks, but it is what it is now.

Returning to the window, I sit on the open windowsill. The sea is calm, and the sun is setting. The Campari is good, and I made it strong.

After a while, I feel the cool night air, and I calm. As I relax, I look back. The arrogant bastard is still laying there like he’s in a darned spa. He is using all the hot water, and he is not even washing that… that perfect body.

I walk slowly to the bath, and one of his eyes opens, like an alligator .

He watches me slowly, and I walk up and reach down. The water is no longer hot. I make my most peaceful deal-making face, and I force a smile.

“If you get out now, I won’t look.”

All of a sudden, he stands, and I catch an eyeful and gasp.

I spin as he climbs out and he stands in front of the mirror, reaching for a towel. I face the window and see him out the corner of my eye.

He is hung, glistening, and his steaming lean body and six-pack is God-like.

He has more tattoos than I saw this morning, but they are oddly classy and stylish.

Most with green and yellow, kind of Asian, and hot.

It’s the most masculine and chic art-like tattoo collection I’ve ever seen, and he looks like a work of fucking art.

My heart pumps and my body is acting strange. As Dante calmly dries himself, I quickly move away from him, trying not to stare. I am cold, and I climb quickly into the bath, tossing my towel on a side chair.

Dropping into the water, I check out his compact perfect butt.

“Watch it!” Dante growls low.

I realize he can see me from the mirror, and our eyes meet. As he stares into the mirror and dries his chest, I lift my chin. I then sip my cool strong drink. Screw him.

The warm water and ice-cold drink are perfect. Like fire and ice.

If I’m in a semi-hot bath with a hot male butt to look at, I will take it, and I will suffer the god-darned consequences.

What is he going to do, have me thrown out of the place? And what the heck did he expect?

Intrigued, I watch him finish toweling himself. He has turned and he cannot see me now. As he slides the fluffy towel over his athletic torso , it is becoming harder not to stare.

He is clearly not ashamed of his body, but who would be with that?

As he towels off his legs, butt, and stomach, I gulp. It’s time to play!

“Teasing is a form of terrorism,” I say, unplanned. The arrogant grump says nothing and reaches for his jeans.

His perfect butt is rounded, rock hard and still uncovered.

He pulls his jeans on without anything else, and he slowly zips them up. As he finishes, he turns and watches me.

He then pushes his jet-black hair back, and he walks up with his perfect six-pack and God-like body. My heart stops as we lock eyes.

As he looks down, feet from me, I cover myself with my hands. One hand sits over my unused folds, the other over my breasts.

Our eyes hold, and both of us appear defiant. Push back now, or you never will! Do it, girl!

I drop my hands to my sides, and I lift my chin and gulp. Dante can now see all of me below the water, as the bubbles have dissipated.

I gulp and steel myself as my nipples harden. I get even more wet. “You don’t intimidate me.”

Dante keeps staring down at me, as if contemplating.

His eyes travel down my naked untouched body, and something inside him growls. My nipples harden even more, and my stomach tightens. It is not hot. It is wicked. So darned wicked.

Like him!

I hate the fact that I’m wet and turned on, as the gorgeous bastard looks me up and down. As he takes in my curves, his eyes seem to darken. They seem to change, as if getting darker and darker.

The energy excites me, and here and now if he asked me to touch myself, I would not hesitate. As my heart and clit pound, I imagine him stretching me wide. His eyes return to mine, and he crosses his thick arms above his six pack.

“Satisfied?” I ask with steely eyes.

His eyes penetrate me, and I gulp.

“That’s the thing, darling. You. Could. Never. Satisfy. Me!”

I lash out fast, and I toss the wet soft body scrubber at him. He catches it with ease as he steps backwards slowly. He throws it straight back, and it lands on my lower stomach.

Actually, near my folds.

The rogue then spins, and he heads for the door. He pauses, and with his hand on the door handle, he speaks huskily.

“Do you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest,” I huff. The arrogant brute turns off the light, leaves, and closes the door. I am now in complete darkness, and I yell, “Hey!”

After a long huff, I notice the moon rising across the Mediterranean Sea. It is a perfect view and an amazing way to see it. The moon and sea are spectacular, and the brute must have known. I huff, flustered. I am turned on, I am excited, and I am frustrated.

“Bastardo,” I mutter. “Arrogant Bastardo.”