I Can Do It Novel Novels & Stories

He was still so full of himself. "No. I mean, just hurry up and get here. It's hard to explain." Moments later, the door to the waiting room was flung open. Gilbert stormed in furiously. "Well, Jennifer, who's this random guy you found to help you put on this little act?" Before he could finish, a deep, husky voice cut him off. There was a calm but commanding chill to the voice. "Gilbert, what are you doing?" Gilbert froze and slowly turned his head.

She glanced back down at the leather-bound book resting on the floorboards beside her. The empty pages seemed to stare up at her, daring her to turn them. With a trembling hand, she picked it up again, the leather warm against her palm. She knew she should get up, should finish unpacking, should do something practical, anything to distract herself from the throbbing between her legs. But she couldn't. She was hooked. The anonymous writer had become a guide, a seductress whispering secrets into her ear, and Pinky was a willing student, desperate to learn every lesson.

"Quentin will sneak back today. Would you like to come with me to the airport to pick him up?" "Quentin?" The name struck a chord of familiarity, echoing the male protagonist from my harem novel. "Quentin Bennett? The famous star Quentin Bennett?" "Yes," the woman gently touched my forehead. "No fever." I possessed an unusually high level of acceptance. Blinking, I realized I must have transmigrated. So, the reason that awful book was covering my face when I died served a purpose! Before my demise, I had been telling Randy that I would sue Quentin Bennett for bigamy!

"I'll do as I please. You cannot." Reaching the door separating their bedchambers, Cassy put a hand on the heavy brass latch and paused, her body rigid. "If I cannot do what you seem to think I've already done," she said with forced calm, "it's only because I don't want to. I assure you, your grace, that if I wanted to be...be in other beds, I would do so and let the consequences be damned. Maybe I will want another man in my bed..."

She spent so much of life moving from one responsibility to another that she had almost forgotten what stillness felt like. Her gaze wandered across the room. Two elderly gentlemen argued cheerfully over a crossword. Three women dressed for a night out attempted to take a group selfie, dissolving into laughter every time someone blinked. Near the bar, a man in a suit gestured dramatically while telling what looked like an embarrassing story to his colleagues. It all felt reassuringly ordinary. Exactly what she needed. She reached into her handbag for the novel she had been reading. The bookmark remained stubbornly halfway through chapter twelve. She managed perhaps three pages before realisi

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Walking away from they office block to the compound, then finally to the main road, Bisola await a taxi to take her home, but then an idea struck her mind, she turns around and begin to search for a café center, luckily for her, she is able to locate one just in time, she pay up for few hour. Bisola settle down first, she begins to surf the web, she begins to make lot of research about the mysterious product made by her boss. Actually the product is like other product out there, just that Dapo made some upgrade to his own product, the model and the functions it perform makes it a little bit different from the rest of the product, she also makes more research about the product function with o

The moment I opened the door barefoot, I realized how ridiculous I was being. "Patrick? It really is you—you're back?" Sonya Peters from the neighborhood committee beamed when she saw me and gave my shoulder a warm pat. "Yeah, Sonya, I'm back. What's going on?"

I don’t play games. Eric: How are you? Irina: I’m good, right now I am here at Coffee Bean, drinking a cup of caramel macchiato, and eating a slice of milk tea cake and writing a novel. Eric: Wow, delicious. What genre of novel is that? Irina: About dreams and time travel, self-love, peace and isolation, loneliness, desperation, and life and death. It’s not a love story, but almost a love story. Eric: Doesn’t sound like a love story to me, but it seems Interesting,

“Who is it?!” 'It's me! India!' A faint female voice called out as thunder crashed, so loud it felt like it shook the ground. He reached for the doorknob, then realized he was in his underwear. He quickly went back to his room to grab his striped black-and-white robe. The knocking kept going, growing more urgent. Denver hurried back to the door to open it. He froze in place, uncertainty flickering across his face. ‘Did she say India?’ For a moment, he just stared at the doorknob, mind racing. When he realized he’d heard right, he fumbled with the lock and swung it open. India stood on the doorstep, rain-soaked hair plastered to her face, shivering, her drenched clothes clinging to her frame,