- About the Series
- About the Book
- About the Author
- Private Desire — Sensual Adventures
- 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
Determined, bold and proactive, young journalist Sofia Interrante is certainly not the type of girl to beat around the bush. It seems that nothing can faze her. And yet, when the editor of her newspaper asks her to write an article about a famous chef — now considered a sex symbol and never off the TV screens — Sofia feels out of her comfort zone for the first time. The chef in question is no less than Manlio Bivaldi — her former geeky and pimply high school classmate. It seems that distant events are coming back to haunt her, and Sofia wants nothing to do with them. Nevertheless, sometimes life surprises you with a second chance. So, between old memories and new sensual discoveries in the kitchen, Sofia and Manlio end up enveloped in a frenzied passion that takes them both to unexpected places …
About the Author
Patrizia Crespi is the pseudonym of a writer based in Varese who has authored several novels and short stories. In addition to being a writer, she is also a passionate reader. She’s into life, dreams and good food. And when she really wants to eat well, she gets her husband to cook for her. Private Desire — Sensual Adventures is her first erotic novel.
“As you probably know, my dear aspiring journalist, there’s a VIP in town.”
I hate it when he calls me that — and it’s been ten years now. It started when I began to write for the newspaper’s local news section, thanks to a “little push” from my lover at the time, a certain Danilo Vincenzi, who used to be an important politician in those days. Mind you, it was also thanks to my talent and skill — no so much as a lover, but rather as a “pain in the neck,” which is as important to a reporter as working with his hands is to a sculptor. Yes, I am a writer, but mostly I am a great connoisseur of men. I always know how to get them to talk, about whatever I want.
Women, too, to be honest, even though I have never needed to flirt with them.
The thing is, I know humankind. That’s it.
And yet I just don’t understand my boss, Dr. (he insists on being called that) Augusto Viscardi, director and owner of the newspaper. He is a charming old man, with a pretty good track record of lovers himself.
I hate it when he mentions something he knows, but that I don’t.
“Usual famous American actor who’s in love with Italy and wants to move here? Typical filthy rich Brazilian soccer star?”
“Better, dear Sofia, much better.”
“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to buy a vowel?”
“Who fascinates women more than actors these days?”
“Like I said, soccer players.”
“No, more than that.”
“A VIP’s plumber? Madonna’s personal trainer, perhaps? Angelina Jolie’s pediatrician? No, that can’t be it, he must be working 24/7 with all those children …”
“Much better. The reason why we thought of you is that Renato has done some research on this person … We found out he’s your age, and that you and he both attended Mazzini high school. Same section, same class.”
I think about it. I see the boss likes to play, so let’s play. Plus, he’s already said that the article is mine, so …
In my class there were twenty-two of us, twelve females and ten males. Let’s say that we were not exactly the pride of the high school — section C always appears among the very last pages of the school records. Truth is, we were a bunch of dunces. Section A had a couple of ministers, a few surgeons, engineers, architects … Same with B; F had a couple of journalists — but serious ones, not like me. There was also that plastic surgeon who, despite his young age — we are all thirty-three — has had several features written about him. He made fake boobs for two showgirls a couple of years ago. But as for us, as professor Augello used to say, C stood for Catastrophe: we would never contribute to the economy, society, or culture of the country. No one apart from … from that idiot … that stupid ….
Augusto smiles and nods.
“You got it, huh? Ever been to Portofino?”
“Manlio Bivaldi? …” I say, stuttering.
And I pray to God. I know, I know, you gave us commandments and I broke them all — I don’t even know if there’re ten or eleven of them — I know, but please, please, please don’t let it be Manlio Bivaldi. Not that twat. Please make Augusto shake his head no. Portofino? Of course I’ve been to Portofino, and of course I’ve never been to the twat’s three-Michelin-star restaurant, what’s-it-called … Splendida Riva, Splendid Shore, what a stupid name! Please, please …
“Correct: you won.”
“No, please, not Bivaldi.”
“Think of Tiziano’s desk …”
Once again, that same old story: Tiziano’s desk is next to mine and he has the worst job ever. On the sign next to his name, on the counter, next to his family photo, it says “Obituaries.”
“Takes two seconds to swap your chair with his, Sofia.”
“You can’t do this to me. I’ll take all the car accidents until the end of summer, and you know how many there are. I’ll take all the fairs and church parties, too, but please, don’t send me to Bivaldi.”
“You’re going. It’s a cooking class in Villa Speroni. You know the guy, it will be a piece of cake.”
“Piece of cake? I can barely fry an egg, how am I supposed to do a cooking class? And not just any class, no, one with one of the best chefs in Italy, Europe, the world! I will look like a complete idiot!”
“It helps that you can’t cook, Sofia. Bivaldi is back in town and will do a basic cooking class. ‘Cooking for women, by women’ is the title. He’s been given loads of money for this.”
“Bullshit or not, you’re starting tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, tomorrow? I’m going to Formentera, you knew that Augusto, I’ve got the ticket in my purse.”
“I’m sorry, you can go next week. I’ve already asked the travel agency, they said they’ll change the date.”
“But I don’t want to change the date … I can’t …”
“Look, Sofia, I know Bignardi will meet you in Formentera, and you also know I disapprove of your relationship. It will only hurt you, and anyway he can go on holiday whenever he wants, and so can you, but not this week. Starting tomorrow, which is Friday, up until Tuesday and including Sunday, you’ll attend Bivaldi’s class and write a series of articles until the end of summer. The cooking column is yours. End of story.”
“You’re unfair!” I shout at him.
“Chefs are the new sex-symbols, you should be happy.”
“Go to hell, you and your sex-symbols. Have you even seen Bivaldi?”
“Sure. My wife often watches his TV show — and let me tell you, I’ve had some really nice fish last week thanks to him. Look, in exchange for this I’ll give you an extra week off, so you won’t say I’m a slave-driver, okay? The week after the class and the first week of September. Happy?”
“You’re not a slave-driver, you’re a …a … Oh, GOD!!!” I shout, because I can’t think of a word that would hurt him enough. I storm out.
The problem is I love the guy, and he loves me. That’s what fucks us up.
Renato is crossing the hall with a coffee in his hand — probably the tenth or twelfth of the day. He stops and smiles at my outraged expression.
“You can go to hell, too! I hope you get an ulcer with all that coffee, I really do,” I shout at him.
He laughs and goes to his desk.
“I’m going to that conference about those stupid paintings,” I yell at everyone and no one in particular.
“It’s photos, Sofia, not paintings, and the photographer is the mayor’s nephew, don’t forget that,” says Renato with a big smile.
“Mind your own business,” I hiss as I leave. I love him, too, and he knows that.
My mobile rings as I’m walking down the main road. At least I’ll save the two euros per hour avoiding those damned parking lots. I have no idea how long this stupid opening of this stupid exhibition will last, and who cares anyway, traffic officers are looking like vultures hovering around the cars, waiting for the corpse of the expired ticket.
Let’s hope there’s some food, at least. It’s almost noon and I didn’t even have breakfast. What kind of opening takes place at noon? Oh yes, I forget — rich people don’t eat, they nibble. Well, I eat. I don’t cook, but I eat. One of my boyfriends once told me he spent more on food than on clothes for me. What a gentleman!
“Honey, so what time do you land tomorrow? What time do I pick you up?”
“Roby, honey … ehm … there’s a problem …”
“Hold on, what do you mean? You’re still coming, right? What the fuck am I supposed to do in Formentera by myself? Do you want people to think I’m gay?”
What a drag!
“Roby, work is work, you know this better than I do. Augusto gave me this big thing to do …”
“What? An article about the latest granny who got robbed? The asparagus fair?”
“Why do you have to be such an asshole?”
“Because I’m here on my own on a terrace with a lovely view, with two guys making out on the beach, and I don’t even dare to go out.”
“You’re the one who chose Formentera.”
“That’s not the point.”
“The point is that I need to go to a cooking class organized by the famous … (I swallow hard) Manlio Bivaldi, and have to write about it.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You? At a cooking class?”