Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the gauzy curtains, casting long, dancing shadows across the silent room. His approach was not a demand but a question, a slow pilgrimage across the space between them that made the air hum. When his fingers first brushed the delicate skin of her inner wrist, it was not a touch but a whisper, a secret shared directly with her pulse. A shiver, delicate as a falling petal, traced its way up her arm, and she let her head fall back with a soft, surrendering sigh. He watched the flutter of her eyelids, learning the map of her pleasure in the language of her tremors and the quiet catch of her breath. His palm, warm and steady, settled on the small of her back, a grounding weight that promised both safety and delicious ruin. Every movement was a slow, deliberate stroke on a canvas of sensation, painting heat and light behind her closed eyes. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a conversation of skin and soul where words were both impossible and entirely unnecessary. She felt herself unraveling, not into pieces, but into a new, more vibrant whole, woven together by his patient, artful hands. In that suspended moment, they existed only in the silent, breathless poetry their bodies wrote upon the quiet air.
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