KAMASUTRA.
The moon cast long, silver shadows across the quiet room, the only sound our mingled, unsteady breaths. Her entrance was not a storm but a shift in the very air, a charged silence that made my skin hum. I foolishly spoke of another, and a wounded pride flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by a fierce, challenging fire. She closed the distance, her hand finding mine, our fingers intertwining with a desperate urgency that spoke volumes. Her lips met mine in a slow, searching kiss that tasted of salt and secrets, a language far deeper than words. Every movement was a practiced, gentle art, a slow dance of shared heat and trembling exploration. I could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart against my chest, a wild drum answering the thunder in my own. Soft sighs escaped her lips, each one a whispered confession against my skin as we moved together in the dim light. The world narrowed to this single, suspended moment of pure, aching connection, a silent understanding passing between our souls. In the profound stillness that followed, wrapped in a tender embrace, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
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