Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The grand ballroom was a symphony of hushed murmurs and clinking crystal, but for me, the world had narrowed to the space between Jessie Ames and myself. Her gaze, a soft, searching emerald in the low light, held mine with an unspoken promise that made my breath catch. As a slow melody began, her hand found the small of my back, a gentle pressure that felt both like a question and an answer. I could feel the warmth of her skin through the delicate silk of her dress, a subtle heat that spread through me like a slow-blooming fire. She leaned in, her cheek brushing against mine, and the scent of her perfume—night-blooming jasmine and vanilla—wrapped around my senses. My fingers trembled as they traced the line of her jaw, feeling the delicate pulse point at her throat quicken under my touch. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound so intimate it felt like a secret shared only with me, and her eyes fluttered closed for a breathtaking moment. In that suspended silence, surrounded by a faceless crowd, our shared vulnerability became its own kind of sanctuary. Every nerve in my body was alive, humming with the electric anticipation of what was to come. The noise of the party faded into a distant hum, irrelevant against the profound, quiet understanding passing between our intertwined souls.
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