- About the Series
- About the Book
- About the Author
- Private Desire — Secret Obsession
- The Cure
- I haven’t seen the painting.
- Next episode
About the Series
Sizzling love stories packed with erotic suspense — this e-book series features self-contained erotic love stories in picturesque settings.
About the Book
Thirty-five-year-old Lucia feels trapped. Following her husband Antonio, she left Rome, her hometown, and moved to a small town in the heart of southern Italy. Since her husband is executive director of a multinational company, he is never home. Luckily, Lucia is able to find solace in books. She spends her days living out the lives of others so as to escape her own humdrum existence. But one day, the house next door is bought by Giorgio, a young artist in search of peace and inspiration. This enigmatic and creative figure starts consuming Lucia’s every waking thought, to the point of becoming an obsession. She starts spying on him, and even observing him from a distance is enough to make her feel alive again. One day, Giorgio notices her, and asks her to pose as a model for his paintings. Between painting sessions and secret meetings, their passion takes over and changes both their lives.
About the Author
Laura Martini is the pseudonym of a young Neapolitan writer with a passion for art and literature. She loves Asian languages, and plays the piano and the violin. Private Desire — Secret Obsession is her first erotic novel.
I am a woman. I am a dreamer. But not someone caught up in sweet dreams and living with their head in the clouds. Not at all: my flesh burns and I’m very much down to earth. But I do love reading. I love filling my days with stories told by others, because ever since we moved to this place my life has been like an empty well — and this is dangerous. The well tends to suck everything up, and if you don’t use your mind, unless you walk away, you will find yourself in the dark, alone, with only the debris of what used to be your existence to keep you company. So you learn to stay up above the well, and look around.
I’m waiting for my husband, but nothing. Antonio won’t come back. He’s the executive director of a multinational company, spending his days out, living his exciting life, while I’m here pretending to have one. I don’t like this, I don’t want this. It annoys me. I need to find myself a job.
But I wouldn’t know where to start. I get up from the couch and run to the study, my own study, with my own library. I have been reading a new book for days, but I haven’t put back the one I finished yet. It belongs on the shelf, next to the others I have already read. I should have done it before the Rite of the Choice, which is the best thing I happen to do these days.
I walk to the shelf where I keep the books I have just bought. They’re all in a row, like little soldiers. There’s twenty-one of them. Several thrillers, two erotic books, and five by my favorite writer, Elena Mirto. She has become my favorite recently, since I became obsessed with Giorgio. Then I put down the book and try to get some chores done.
The image of his face explodes through my brain. I run to the kitchen window, hoping to see him come back. It’s seven o’ clock, usually now he stops to pet his cat as he walks toward the entrance of his villa, breathing heaps of air, even stealing my oxygen, making improper and destructive use of it.
Giorgio has a problem, or rather he has a lot of problems: he is incredibly handsome, for one, with that black disheveled hair falling onto his dark face, his oriental eyes and his very small nose, damn it. But his mouth is big like a stage curtain, like a cave. I’d give anything to lick his lips, to feel what he tastes like. Anything, yes. Even my quiet married life.
I start cooking. Tonight I’m making an omelet with asparagus, as Antonio loves. He will complain for about fifteen minutes because I make him overeat, because I deep-fry, because I put butter on everything, but in the end he will swallow the whole dish like a fucking snake. It wouldn’t hurt if he swallowed me up, too. I would stop spying on Giorgio, for instance. Maybe.
While I’m whisking the eggs, Giorgio appears in the window frame, making a perfect picture. I leave the fork sitting in the eggs and run to have a look, hoping he doesn’t turn around.
I must make a rather pathetic picture, with this rag in my hand and with runny makeup from crying over the last book I read. I watch him violate the grass of the entranceway and feel the usual overpowering desire: it’s like a boulder dragging me to the ground, making me weak, leaving me breathless. Giorgio is not a man. Giorgio is an army, a storm, a serious danger.
I hold back a groan when I see him disappear into his house. I go back to making dinner, confused. It is because of this bloody confusion that I have not tried to approach him yet. Sometimes I follow him — but always at a distance.
To my relief, I’ve noticed that when he walks into a bar, or a supermarket, there’s tension in the air as everyone looks at him. It would be worrying if the man had such an effect only on me, you know, I’d think I was completely crazy. But no: he profoundly attracts the whole world, yet somehow without being a part of it.
He is beyond things and people, he can do without that all. The opposite of me — I feel lost without others. You see it by the way he doesn’t pay attention to screaming children on the street, to the phone that stays unanswered while he is smoking a cigarette, or to traffic at rush hour: everything just passes him by without ...