Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The moon cast long, silver fingers through the window, painting your silhouette in shades of pearl and shadow. I watched the steady rhythm of your breathing, a silent symphony that called to my own. My fingertips found the delicate curve of your shoulder, tracing a path of whispered heat down the gentle slope of your arm. A soft sigh escaped your lips, a sound sweeter than any melody, as you leaned into my touch. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only this hushed sanctuary where time itself seemed to slow its relentless march. I could feel the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath my thumb, a wild bird echoing the frantic beat within my own chest. Your eyes, dark pools of liquid night, held mine with an unspoken question, and my answer was a slow, reverent brush of my lips against your temple. The air grew thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the intoxicating warmth of your skin. Every nerve in my body was alive, singing a desperate, beautiful hymn of longing and tender possession. In that suspended moment, we were not breaking rules but creating our own, writing a secret history in the language of shared breaths and trembling hands.
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