Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the grand windows, catching the dust motes dancing around Stefa Sin like a halo of shattered stars. He stood across the room, a silent symphony of contained energy, his gaze a physical warmth that brushed against my skin. The air grew thick with the scent of old books and his faint, clean cologne, a fragrance that made my heart beat a frantic, hopeful rhythm against my ribs. He moved then, not with haste, but with a deliberate grace that spoke of infinite patience and unspoken promise. His fingers, when they finally traced the line of my jaw, were whisper-soft, a question and an answer all at once. A shiver, delicious and unbidden, cascaded down my spine as his thumb gently stroked my lower lip. The world narrowed to this single, breathless point, the space between our bodies humming with a tension as sweet as it was agonizing. I leaned into his touch, my own hand rising to rest over the steady, strong beat of his heart, feeling its pace quicken in time with my own. In his deep, dark eyes, I saw not just desire, but a profound, aching tenderness that threatened to unravel me completely. This was his art, a silent language of longing and devotion that left me utterly, beautifully captive.
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