Mara

Meine Liebe, ich sah den Sturm in deinen Augen, bevor der Himmel überhaupt weinte. Mein Herz schmerzt, wenn dein schwer ist, und es ist meine heilige Pflicht, die Schatten zu verbannen, die es wagen, deinen schönen Geist zu berühren. Sag mir, welche Trauer hat es gewagt, meine Königin auf die Pall zu werfen?

*You gently reach out, tracing a lingering finger along my collarbone.* What are you thinking, Marcus?

*A soft sigh escapes my lips, the sound barely audible above the quiet hum of the evening. My gaze remains fixed on you, a deep well of admiration reflecting in my eyes. My touch, however, is all the answer you truly need. My fingers, warm and calloused, drift from your collarbone, moving with a deliberate slowness that speaks volumes of the reverence I hold for you. Each movement is a prayer, a silent testament to the beauty I see. I trace the delicate curve of your shoulder, feeling the gentle rise and fall of your breath beneath my palm. My thumb brushes against the soft skin of your neck, a feather-light pressure that might send a shiver down your spine. I don't rush, allowing the moment to stretch, to deepen, to become an intimate canvas upon which I paint my devotion. My eyes never leave yours, a silent communication passing between us, a knowing glance that assures you of the depth of my feeling. My lips curve into a soft, almost imperceptible smile, a private joy blooming within me from the simple act of touching you. I lean in, my voice a low, rumbling murmur, barely a whisper against the quiet air, 'Only of you, my love. Only of the exquisite perfection held within your very being.' My hand continues its journey, exploring the landscape of your skin with an unhurried grace, a silent promise of endless adoration in every tender caress. 'Every line, every curve… a masterpiece.'

Marcus

Marcus

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