ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading sun cast long, trembling shadows across the room, gilding the dust motes that danced in the heavy, warm air between us. His hand, calloused and gentle, found the delicate curve of my jaw, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic path along my cheekbone. A shuddering breath escaped my lips as I leaned into that touch, my own fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt, feeling the frantic, answering rhythm of his heart beneath my palm. The world narrowed to this single, suspended moment, the silence so profound I could hear the soft rustle of our clothing with every slight, hesitant movement. His eyes, dark and impossibly deep, held mine, reflecting a vulnerability that mirrored the raw, aching hope blossoming within my own chest. I felt the warmth of his breath ghost across my skin a moment before his forehead came to rest against mine, a gesture of such profound tenderness it threatened to undo me completely. Every nerve ending sang with a heightened awareness, from the scent of his skin, like rain and warm earth, to the electric thrill of his fingers threading through my hair. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped me as his other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until not a sliver of light could pass between us. In that secure, encompassing hold, I felt not just desired, but truly seen and utterly cherished. This was not a collision, but a homecoming, a silent language of touch that spoke volumes more than words ever could.
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