ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun cast long, golden fingers across the room, gliding over the curve of her shoulder as she settled onto the cushioned surface. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, a soft sound of surrender to the coming moments. His hands, warm and sure, first rested gently on her back, a simple weight that spoke of quiet understanding. Then they began to move, a slow, deliberate pilgrimage up the slope of her neck, smoothing away the tight whispers of the day. Each stroke was a question, and her relaxing muscles gave a murmured, grateful answer. The air itself seemed to grow still and heavy with the scent of lavender, clinging to her skin and his wrists with every pass. She felt the careful pressure in his palms, a patient kneading of tension that unraveled like a coiled thread. Her breathing deepened, syncing with the rhythm he created, a silent duet in the fading light. A profound sense of being cherished washed over her, not as a demand, but as a gentle, unwavering fact. In that hushed space, there were only two heartbeats and the slow, healing map his touch was drawing across her skin.
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