The Hamster Called. He Wants His Home

Fang’s Hand Gently Smoothed My Hair Off My Neck. My Breath Froze In My Chest, And Every Sense Seemed Hyperalert. His Hand Stroked My Hair Again, So Softly, And Then Trailed Across My Neck And Shoulder And Down My Back, Making Me Shiver. I Looked Up. “what The Heck Are You Doing?” “helping You Change Your Mind,” He Whispered, And Then He Leaned Over, Tilted My Chin Up, And Kissed Me.

I Am Not A Great Prose Stylist. I'm A Storyteller. There Are Thousands Of People Who Don't Like What I Do. Fortunately, There Are Millions Who Do.

That'd Be Just What I Need: A Rash Of Car Thefts Across America, Committed By Dedicated Readers.

You...are...a...fridge...with Wings,' Fang Ground Out, Punching An Eraser Hard With Every Word. 'we're...freaking...ballet...dancers.

We Is Always So Much Better Than I.