The rykers
The moon cast a silver glow through our bedroom window, painting his skin in shades of pearl and shadow as we moved through our nightly ritual. I noticed the subtle shift in his posture, a quiet tension that spoke a language only I understood. My fingers traced the line of his jaw before my lips followed, a soft pilgrimage down the column of his throat. Each kiss was a whispered promise against his feverish skin, feeling his breath catch and his hands tighten in my hair. Driven by a deep, aching tenderness, my journey continued lower, my tongue becoming a gentle explorer charting the familiar yet always thrilling landscape of his body. A new, daring impulse guided me, a need to discover every secret tremor and sigh he possessed. I ventured further, my caresses becoming a dual worship, a synchronized rhythm of devotion that made him tremble. A low, guttural moan escaped him, a sound of pure, unguarded surrender that echoed in the quiet room. The taste of his skin was my addiction, the sounds of his pleasure my most cherished symphony. In that suspended midnight hour, we were not two people, but one single, yearning flame, burning away the world until only our shared ecstasy remained.
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