The rykers
The last echoes of the party faded as the final guest departed, leaving only the whisper of the night breeze over the dark, still pool. Mya’s dress had been a puddle of silk on the tiles, a silent testament to the passion that had unfolded under the starlit water. Now, in the sanctuary of the borrowed bedroom, the only light was a silver thread from the moon, casting our shadows on the wall in a silent, moving ballet. She pulled back the crisp white sheets, creating a secret world for just us two, her skin glowing like pearl in the dimness. Every shift of her body against the cool cotton was a deliberate, languid caress, a conversation spoken only through touch. Her eyes, dark pools of wanting, held mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my chest. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she moved above me, a rhythm as old as time, her hair cascading around our faces like a fragrant curtain. The feeling was an exquisite, building pressure, a slow climb towards a distant, shimmering peak we sought together. I could feel the tremor start deep within her, a delicate earthquake that echoed through my own soul, binding us in that singular, breathless moment. And as we finally stilled, wrapped in each other and the quiet of the night, the only sound was our hearts beating in a perfect, shared rhythm.
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