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She devoured him until the night forgot the moon existed,
and the darkness burned brighter than the dawn within her.

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Within him storms a restless force,
and she, the rose that quiets his tempest;
united, they burn bright and bloom,
where his fury bends to her quiet grace.

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She carried modesty like a morning veil,
but within her, a ferocious intent thrived.
Desire flowed through her like ancient blood,
a silent oath binding him to her soul.
Patience was her silent weapon,
measuring the hours from midnight’s first whisper
to the faint gold of dawn.
Her slick finger traced constellations on his skin,
each touch a star pulling him higher,
until they reached the brutal mount of desire
where he saw the day’s queen
transform into his evil queen.
She ruled with breathless command,
sustaining the heat,
feeding the hunger
for the next round
of their pleasureful, endless night.

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His mouth wrote things
his hands didn’t dare.
A slow bite,
a bruise blooming like a secret
just beneath her skin.
She wore it like jewelry,
a mark that said
someone in this world
knew her deeply enough
to leave something behind.

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He didn’t chase.
He cherished.
Every motion,
every moan,
a prayer whispered through her body.
Her pleasure
wasn't about reaching the peak,
but about the endless path to it,
a slow burn of becoming,
where ecstasy bloomed
in the way she gasped,
“You satisfy what I didn’t know I needed.”

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We touch the stars with science,
yet fail to touch
the loneliness
next to us.

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Sunday held no calm,
only the weight of her weekend waiting,
a restless mood,
ready to erupt
after a week
of holding control,
and finally,
the kind of bloom
that made silence blush.

He showed her
what Sunday really means,
not a day of rest,
but the moment
a week’s hunger meets its mate.
Not just love,
but the kind
that blooms beneath skin
and doesn't end
when the day does.

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Somewhere, before time took shape,
a story was written,
not in ink, but in the hush between heartbeats,
where two souls agreed to find each other,
no matter the cost.

Every lifetime since
has carried whispers of that promise,
in dreams that felt like memories,
in eyes that held too much knowing.

Each ache was a passage.
Each parting, a prayer.
Each silence, a thread still holding.

The reward was never ease,
but recognition,
a moment where faith outlasted doubt,
and the soul could finally rest
in what it always knew was true.

Love doesn’t arrive by chance.
It returns,
exactly when it’s meant to.

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