ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the dusty windowpane, catching in the fine, flyaway hairs that had escaped her braid. He watched, mesmerized, as she turned, her smile a slow, secret thing meant only for him in the quiet of the room. The air itself felt thick and warm, charged with a silent understanding that made his heart thrum against his ribs. Her fingers, when they found his, were surprisingly cool, a gentle anchor in the swelling tide of his own breathless anticipation. She leaned in, her forehead resting against his, and he could feel the soft whisper of her exhale on his lips. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between their bodies, to the scent of her skin, like sunshine on clean linen. A soft sigh escaped her as his hand came to rest on the curve of her waist, a touch that felt both like a question and its answer. Her eyes, wide and impossibly clear, held his with a tenderness that made his throat feel tight. This was not a stolen moment, but a gifted one, a perfect, silent language spoken only through trembling closeness. And for sixty perfect seconds, nothing existed but the shared, rising warmth and the profound peace of being completely known.
Comments
Post a Comment