Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The world outside the rain-streaked window blurred into a watercolor of grey and green, forgotten the moment his fingers, warm and deliberate, traced the delicate line from my shoulder to my wrist. A shiver, entirely separate from the room's chill, followed the path of his touch, awakening every nerve it passed. My breath caught, a soft, shaky sound lost in the steady rhythm of the downpour against the glass. He leaned in, his forehead gently resting against mine, and in that shared space, the air grew thick with the scent of old books and his faint, clean cologne. I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart where his chest barely brushed against mine, a silent drum answering the frantic flutter of my own. His gaze held mine, a deep, unspoken question shimmering in the hazel depths, and my silent answer was the slight, involuntary part of my lips. When his mouth finally met mine, it was not a conquest but a discovery, a slow, tender exploration that tasted of whispered promises and infinite patience. My hands found their way into his hair, the strands soft and cool between my fingers, an anchor in the dizzying, sweet vertigo. Every careful, lingering touch felt like a language we were only just learning to speak, a conversation of skin and soul that needed no words. In that suspended moment, wrapped in the cocoon of the storm, we were the only two people in the world, unraveling not just each other's guarded layers, but the very essence of a long-held, tender desire.
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