Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The fading afternoon sun cast long, golden fingers through the dusty studio window, catching the delicate motes of pollen dancing in the air around Lucy Mendes. She stood perfectly still, a statue of quiet anticipation, her breath a soft whisper in the warm, still room. His approach was not heard, but felt, a shift in the atmosphere that made the fine hairs on her arm rise in silent salute. When his knuckles finally grazed the slope of her shoulder, the touch was so feather-light it was almost a thought, yet it sent a tremor through her entire being. A sigh escaped her lips, not of surrender, but of arrival, as if she had been holding her breath for a lifetime waiting for this exact moment. He slowly traced the line of her collarbone, his palm radiating a warmth that seeped deep into her bones, melting the last of her reservations. She leaned back into the solid comfort of his chest, her head finding its natural resting place in the curve of his neck, breathing in his scent of clean linen and open sky. In that intimate shelter, the world outside the sunbeam’s embrace ceased to exist, its noise and haste fading into a distant, irrelevant hum. Her heart beat a frantic, joyful rhythm against her ribs, a wild drum answering the steady, reassuring pulse she felt beneath her cheek. This was the gorgeous fantasy she had secretly woven in the quietest hours of her soul, now breathtakingly real and unfolding with every shared, unsteady breath.
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