ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of our quiet breaths. His right hand, resting on the sofa between us, was a study in casual strength, its knuckles a gentle landscape of peaks and valleys. My left hand lay in my lap, a nervous flutter trapped within the delicate cage of my own fingers. Then, a shift in the atmosphere, as palpable as a sudden, warm breeze; his gaze fell upon my hand with an intensity that made my skin hum. Slowly, as if moving through honeyed air, his rougher fingertips brushed against the back of my hand, a whisper of contact that sent a shiver straight to my core. My breath caught, a tiny, captured thing in my throat, as his palm settled over mine, its warmth seeping into my very bones. His thumb began a slow, hypnotic caress across my knuckles, a silent language of comfort and promise that spoke of hidden depths. I turned my hand, a surrender and an invitation, allowing our palms to meet in a perfect, electric fit. The world outside the circle of firelight ceased to exist, reduced to this single point of connection, this profound conversation of skin against skin. In that suspended moment, I felt utterly known, my soul laid bare by the tender, deliberate mapping of his touch.
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