Sophia's Siren Call in the Moroccan Night

"Before or after he died?" I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the question. My mind wandered back to the sultry summer evening on the rooftop terrace of a luxurious Moroccan riad.

The warm breeze carried the scent of jasmine and orange blossoms as I stood beside the beautiful and enigmatic Sophia, her curves a tantalizing blend of Moroccan and Italian heritage. Her dark hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of night, and her full lips seemed to beckon me with an unspoken promise. We had met at an art gallery, where she was modeling for a renowned artist.

I was immediately drawn to her confidence and sensuality. As we sipped champagne and gazed out at the twinkling lights of Marrakech, Sophia's hand brushed against mine, sending a shiver down my spine. I knew in that moment that I was under her spell.

The night air was filled with the sweet scent of desire as we surrendered to the intoxicating beauty of each other. Our lips met in a fiery kiss, the world around us melting away like the golden light of the setting sun. In that instant, I knew that I would follow her anywhere, into the depths of paradise or the darkness of the unknown.

And as we stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, I realized that the question was no longer relevant. We were two souls, lost in the beauty of each other, and nothing else mattered.