ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading afternoon light painted the room in hues of gold and deep violet, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to breathe with our shared silence. His gaze was a tangible warmth, a slow, deliberate caress that started at the curve of my smile and traveled down my neck. I let my fingers, light as a whisper, trace the line of my own collarbone, watching the intensity in his eyes deepen to a smolder. A soft, secret sigh escaped my lips, not of sound, but of feeling, a release of all the tension I had carried for days. He shifted closer, the heat from his body a promise that echoed the frantic rhythm beginning in my chest. The air itself grew thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and our unspoken yearning. When his hand finally, slowly, covered mine, the contact was an electric current of pure tenderness, a connection that felt both startlingly new and deeply familiar. My head tilted back of its own volition, a silent offering, as his thumb began to draw slow, hypnotic circles on my wrist. In that suspended moment, the entire world narrowed to the language of our breath mingling and the profound trust shimmering in the space between us. We were not two people, but a single, aching question and a patient, waiting answer.
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