ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The moon cast long, silver shadows across the rumpled sheets, painting our silent world in shades of mystery. His gaze was a tangible weight, a slow, burning ember that traced the delicate line of my collarbone. A single fingertip followed, a whisper of a touch that sent shivers cascading down my spine, each one a tiny, liquid spark. I arched into the contact, a wordless plea spoken through the yielding curve of my back, my breath catching in a soft, fractured sigh. The air itself grew thick, heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the intoxicating warmth of his skin so near mine. He leaned in, his lips not yet meeting mine, but hovering close enough for me to feel the ghost of his breath, a promise of storms to come. My hands found their way into his hair, tangling in the soft darkness, anchoring me to this dizzying precipice. Every nerve ending hummed with a desperate, aching awareness, a symphony of longing played on a silent instrument. In that suspended moment, the entire universe contracted to the space between our almost-touching mouths. This was not a conquest, but a slow, deliberate unraveling, a sacred dance of breath and trembling anticipation.
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