Can i come over, p.1
Can I Come Over?, page 1
Can I Come Over?
Whitney G.
Contents
Untitled
Can I Come Over?
Synopsis
Preface
Prologue
Seven months later…
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
NINE & a HALF
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
THIRTEEN & a HALF
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
Epilogue
—
Author’s Note
Break Up with Him, for Me
About
Prologue
—
Don’t miss out!
Also By Whitney G.
Untitled
Can I
Come Over?
WHITNEY G.
Can I Come Over?
A Novella
The Naughty Bedroom Collection
Whitney G.
Copyright © 2020 by Whitney G.
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Visit my website at
http://www.whitneygbooks.com/
Synopsis
CAN I COME OVER?
It all started with a sex scene…
Well, I was failing to write a sex scene.
As an author of over fifty smut books, I was struggling to do what I did best. So, for fun, I asked one of my best online friends for some help.
I really shouldn’t have done that…
He wrote the scene far better than I ever could, and seven months of platonic, yet-flirty friendship were wiped away in ten minutes.
He asked to meet me in person…
We’d previously agreed to keep things digital, to remain faceless friends—since he was forty-two, and I was twenty-six, but neither of us could resist.
When I saw him at the airport, I was instantly attracted to him.
But I knew, right then and there, that we could never be.
It turns out that the man I’d been talking to for the past several months was the last person I expected.
The last person I should ever think about…
He’s my dad’s best friend.
This is a standalone novella and Book 1 in the Naughty Bedroom Collection.
For myself
& for doing things my way from here on out
Preface
Dear Awesome Reader,
Thank you for downloading Can I Come Over?—the first book in the Naughty Bedroom Collection. This is a steamy forbidden romance novella and a 100% standalone. It features an alpha male, a feisty heroine, and a trope that I’ve never written before. (It’s one that I have always enjoyed as a guilty-pleasure read, though. It’s my favorite forbidden trope, to be exact.)
This book ends at 85% and features a sneak peek of Break Up with Him, for Me: A Friends to Lovers Romance (my next novel).
I hope that you’ll enjoy reading this quickie romance as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you’ll follow the collection as it’s published.
F.L.Y.
(Effin Love You)
Whit
Prologue
Letter Topic: Hello, No Sex, Just Platonic…
Dear Ryan,
The Words & Letters App suggested your profile to me today, and I couldn’t help but notice that we have a lot of things in common.
That said, I’ve met quite a few douchebags and sex-starved assholes on here, so I need to make a few things clear upfront.
Should you decide to write me back, please know that I’m truly on here because I’ve never really been into Twitter, Instagram, or any other form of personal, social media. I genuinely love writing letters, having long-form conversations, and meeting new people.
That’s it. That’s all I’m here for.
I hope you’ll write back, and we can be friends.
(I already have a boyfriend, so don’t expect anything else.)
Bella
Letter Topic: Re: Hello, No Sex, Just Platonic…
Dear Bella,
Your profile was recommended to me today as well, but I didn’t reach out to you for that very reason.
We have too much in common, and given the fact that I’m sixteen years older than you, you’re probably lying about everything you’ve written, and I don’t have time to waste. (Twenty-six-years old with fifty fucking books published? You enjoy the occasional Cuban cigar? And you try to read two new books a week? Not to mention the other lies that you’ve listed.)
Perhaps, if you’d listed just a few things, I’d believe you, but not all twenty.
I’ve now written back, and we won’t be friends.
(Your boyfriend must not be a very good one if you have time to pen letters to a stranger. I expect to block you by the end of the night.)
Ryan
PS—There’s no point in writing a long message if your subject line gives everything away.
Letter Topic: Re: Re: Hello, No Sex, Just Platonic…
Dear Ryan,
Okay, fuck you.
I’m sorry that you’ve managed to live forty-two whole years under the pitiful ASSumption that there’s no way that someone younger than you could possibly be interested in the same things.
Then again, wait. I don’t currently have a stick wedged up my ass, so that’s one huge thing I don’t share in common with you.
Yes, I’ve published fifty books. It’ll be fifty-two at the end of this month.
My name is Bella J. Swan on amazon.
Look me up, asshole.
Bella
PS—There’s no need to respond to a letter if you’re going to be such an arrogant bastard about it. By the way, I just looked at your friends’ list on here. It’s at ZERO. (Seems like you should be thanking me for even using my time to bother sending you a message.)
Letter Topic: Re: Re: Re: Hello, No Sex, Just Platonic…
Dear Bella,
I must admit that I’m somewhat impressed with your sarcasm, but I’m still two minutes away from blocking you. Nonetheless, since you’ve caught me on the right night, allow me to address more of your bullshit.
‘Bella J. Swan’ has indeed published fifty titles on amazon, although I’m not sure that I can call them “books,” per se. With the exception of Deep Inside of Me, His Big Cock, & Filling Her Softly, all of the page counts are well below seventy. (If you are who you claim to be, I think you should spend your time adding more pages to your books, instead of wasting your words on letters to people you barely know.)
I clicked on the ‘Look Inside’ feature for His Sexy Bride, and the book is so damn short that the free ten percent sample only gives me the table of contents.
Find someone else on this app who has time for you.
Ryan
PS—Your friends’ list is at ZERO as well.
Letter Topic: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hello, No Sex, Just Platonic…
Dear Bella,
Wait a minute.
You’re clearly writing under a pen name—both here and there, and against my better judgment, I ventured to your author website and read through your blog’s first few pages. (Some of your blog posts are longer than some of the books you’ve published, but I digress.)
I noticed that you’ve previously written about some things that we have in common, that you have an appreciation for the written word, and that—despite my baseless ASSumption, you do read two new books a week.
I’m not interested in being your boyfriend or doing anything more than having long-form conversations—just like you.
My apologies.
I’d like us to start over.
Ryan
Seven months later…
ONE
Bella/Christina
“Can you believe that your father is having another kid with that skank?” My mother’s voice sounded over my speakers Saturday morning. “Next time you fly over there to see him, tell him I said that he needs to grow the hell up! He’s fifty years old and still making babies like hotcakes.”
I groaned and held a pillow over my head, trying to block out her words, but it was no use. My mother’s voice could overpower the loudest of thunderstorms.
“And did I tell you about Max?” She shrieked. “He had the audacity to think that I wouldn’t go to the judge and demand alimony. He made five hundred thousand dollars a year when we were together, and he thinks he’s going to walk away without giving me a dime? He must not know who he’s dealing with, Chrissie!”
BEEEEP!
Sighing, I kept my eyes shut for several seconds—trying to drift off to sleep again, but it was no use. I was now wide awake, and I only had myself to blame for not foreseeing this sooner.
Every three months, like clockwork, my mother unloaded her bitterness onto every blank space of my studio apartment’s antique voicemail system.
It always started simple, almost like she was a mature mom who was capable of leaving the past behind. She ranted about her job, wondered why her “beloved and only daughter” would rather live in Charlotte, North
“One last thing I need to say!” Her voice came over my speakers once more. “Your father’s bimbo of a wife is a cunt. Always has been, always will be. She’s currently posting all of her latest pregnancy pictures on Instagram with her whole, hashtag, Grover family forever, and hashtag, Mrs. Grover for eternity bullshit. I’m shocked he doesn’t slide right out of her whenever they fuck, since her vagina has to be wide as a canal after all those kids. And you know what? I’m tempted to comment on one of her posts and tell her that Mr. Grover’s tongue was once licking my asshole. I wonder if she’d put up so many pictures of him kissing her on the lips then!”
BEEEEP!
What the hell? I sat up and tossed my pillow at the machine, toppling it to the floor.
I already knew that she’d call back and leave her final, “I miss you so much, Chrissie, and I hope you’re still doing well with your tutoring job! Call me back when you get a chance!”
There was no point in feeling guilty about missing that one.
She and my father had been divorced since my junior year of high school, but their hatred for each other still burned like wildfire. Teenage sweethearts—at first, they spent more time convincing everyone else that they were in love that they forgot to tell each other. The night that they were finally going to put each other out of misery and “take a much-needed break,” they found out that they were pregnant with me. Then they got married.
“Stupidest fucking decision that I’ve ever made,” they still said to this day.
They’d moved on to new spouses and lives, but they continued to use me as a pawn in their unresolved game of hate.
Tossing the covers off my body, I slipped into my bathroom and took a quick shower—washing away all of the negativity from those voicemails. I wrapped myself in a robe and headed over to the kitchen—turning on the Keurig and my laptop.
I couldn’t afford to waste any time dealing with either of my parents right now. I had a deadline to meet, and the final scenes for My Hot Neighbor weren’t going to write themselves.
Thank God, I never told them that I quit that tutoring job and started writing smutty books for a living…
Taking a few deep breaths, I made a cup of coffee and set a timer for forty minutes—my usual time for penning a sex scene.
Picking up right where I left off yesterday, I typed a few lines and deleted them. I copied and pasted a word here or there for inspiration—“cock,” “wet slit,” “hardness”—and hoped that the sex would unfold as easily as it usually did, but before I knew it, the timer was sounding and there were only three sentences standing on my page.
“And then, with his eyes locked onto hers, he slipped his throbbing member into her juicy wet folds.”
“Then, with his heated gaze blazing, he slid into her vagina ever so slowly, passionately.”
“His cock impaled her all at once—like a freight train, consuming her whole…”
Shaking my head, I tried to convince myself that those lines weren’t as terrible as they sounded, but the truth stared me right in the face.
Throbbing member? Impaled like a freight train?
No matter how many times I read them aloud, they sounded worse with every repeat.
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, this was the third week in a row that I was having this problem. Still, I was refusing to believe that I was suffering from the worst thing an author could ever face: Writer’s Block.
Undaunted, I set the timer for double the length.
This time, I logged into a porn website and watched a few filthy videos, read through a few of my previous sex scenes, and scrolled through my dirty picture collection before trying all over again.
I tried to look away as I typed, to “feel the flow,” but when the beep sounded, and I glanced at the page, the words were more pitiful than the ones before.
“He took her down to the bed and pounded into her pussy like there was no tomorrow.”
“With fire in his eyes, he ravaged her until she unraveled.”
“He filled her warm, wet hole and took her body on a ride that she’d never forget.”
Those words weren’t even worth editing, so I closed the Word document and uncorked a bottle of wine.
Grabbing my phone, I decided to use the rest of today’s writing time to message some of my friends on the Words & Letters app.
My inbox was full of new letters from Amy, Taylor, Sasha, and Arnold—fellow smut authors. Unfortunately, all of their letters were littered with lines about suffering from creative burnout and writer’s block.
That’s literally the last thing I need to talk about today.
I scrolled past their messages and saw a response from the man I’d come to know the most on this app—the man who I faithfully messaged every day about everything and nothing at all.
Ryan.
Outside of my best friend, he was the closest connection in my life right now, and I wasn’t sure whether that was worthy of happiness or pity. I also wasn’t sure whether I wanted to thrash him or be grateful for him most of the time, since his sarcasm often toed the line between brilliance and assholery.
As I waited for his message to load, I considered asking him out for a cup of coffee sometime next month. I’d thought about it quite a few times before—especially on nights when we exchanged letters until the early hours of the morning, but I always held back.
Blame it on the romance writer in me, but a part of me wished that he was as sexy as his writing style, and that one day we’d find a way to be together. The other part of me—the far saner part, knew that if someone at his age was single, there was only one reason why: No other woman wanted him. Huge red flags, keep it moving.
Laughing, I took my time reading his latest letter.
Letter Topic: Awards, Dildos, & Such
Dear Bella,
Congratulations on winning The Golden Cock at the Digital Erotica Awards this week. I’m sure that accomplishment is something that none of your college friends will ever be able to claim. (I noticed that the award comes with a glass dildo. Perhaps the judges know how lonely you’ve been since you dumped your boyfriend during these past few months…)
I’m attaching my longer letter behind this one, but not much has happened in my life this week. Well, unless you want to count one of my close friends setting me up on another disastrous blind date. (I’ve decided to put all the details in my other letter.)
Ryan
PS—I refreshed your Amazon page and noticed that you haven’t published since May. You’ve been working on the same book for four weeks now. What’s the problem?
I immediately started typing a response to his PS note, explaining how I hadn’t had sex in forever, that my creativity had officially run dry, and my sex scenes these past few weeks were nowhere near as good as they used to be. And before I knew it, tears were pricking my eyes—the cold reality of writer’s block settling in.
Here I am, writing about how a hard cock feels between the heroine’s lips, or how deep he can go in her pussy, and I can’t remember the last time I experienced it myself. I mean, you don’t necessarily have to have hot sex to write it (I highly doubt that Stephen King has ever murdered anyone in the name of inspiration for his thrillers), but I’ve never had writer’s block before, and I think my six-month drought may have something to do with it…
