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The air still carried the faint, intoxicating trace of his cologne, a ghost of sandalwood and spice that clung to the silk sheets where he had last lain. Moonlight spilled through the open window, illuminating the empty space beside me, the indentation in the pillow a silent testament to his absence. My fingers traced the cool, smooth cotton where his warm, solid body should have been, the memory of his touch a phantom caress upon my skin. I could almost feel the weight of his leg thrown over mine, the possessive anchor that had held me through the night. The memory of his lips, soft and demanding agat my neck, sent a shiver of longing through my core, a deep, aching emptiness that yearned to be filled. I inhaled deeply, trying to capture more of his essence, but the scent was fading, like a dream upon waking, leaving only a hollow chill in its wake. The silence of the room was a heavy blanket, broken only by the frantic rhythm of my own heart, pounding a desperate, unanswered question into the night. Every fiber of my being screamed for the return of his rough, knowing hands and the low, guttural whispers that once promised ecstasy. This void he left behind was a physical torment, a landscape of cold linen and haunting echoes where only the heat of our passion had once resided.
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