Manashmalla
The moon cast a silver veil through the kitchen window, illuminating the quiet world where only the scent of spices remained. She stood by the counter, her silhouette soft and waiting, until my presence made her turn with a knowing, breathless smile. Our eyes met, speaking volumes of unspoken longing that echoed in the silent house. I stepped closer, my hands finding the gentle curve of her waist as she leaned into the solid warmth of my chest. Her head tilted back, her eyes fluttering closed as my lips found hers in a slow, tender exploration that tasted of stolen moments and sweet surrender. A soft sigh escaped her, a whispered secret against my skin as my fingers traced the delicate line of her spine. The cool marble counter pressed against us, a stark contrast to the growing warmth we created in that sacred space. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, each touch a desperate, loving language of its own. In that hushed intimacy, with our hearts pounding a frantic, synchronized rhythm, the world outside ceased to exist. We were the only souls adrift in a sea of moonlight and muffled, shared breath, clinging to this fragile, perfect dream.
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