My Boyfriends Ass: A Love Story

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The morning light fell in soft stripes across the room, catching the gentle slope of his form still deep in sleep. I watched the quiet rhythm of his breathing, a silent tide that soothed my restless heart. His shoulders, relaxed in perfect peace, spoke of a trust so profound it made my throat tighten. A stray sunbeam traced the curve of his spine, a path my eyes followed with a tender, aching familiarity. Every line of him was a landscape I had memorized, a story written in the language of skin and shadow. When he shifted, a soft sigh escaping his lips, the sheets whispered against his skin, and I felt a warmth bloom deep within my chest. This was more than attraction; it was a quiet, overwhelming devotion to his entire being. In the curve of his hip and the long line of his leg, I saw not just a man, but my home. The simple beauty of his restful pose was a poem I could read forever. To love him was to love every silent, sleeping moment like this, a sacred intimacy that needed no words at all.