Shipped

by Angie Hockman

Graeme is, objectively speaking, a total snack. Too bad his personality is more like week-old leftovers.

“It’s fun. I like a challenge, and you give as good as you get.” “You have no idea.” Instead of sounding flippant, my voice comes out in a rumbly purr. Graeme’s eyes grow hooded. “Maybe not yet.”

“You gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, you might feel the same way about me as I feel about you.” “How do you feel about me?” I whisper. “Usually? Irritation and an extreme urge to shove a whipped-cream pie in your face. But also, desperation. Desire. And, fuck, I want to kiss you.”