ManoJob
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The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse with the frantic rhythm of their hearts. His gaze was a tangible warmth upon her skin, a silent question answered by the slight, almost imperceptible parting of her lips. He reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw with a reverence that made her breath catch. When his thumb brushed her lower lip, a shiver, sweet and electric, cascaded down her spine, pooling as a liquid heat in her core. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as his hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking gentle circles that spoke of unspoken promises. He leaned in, his breath a warm caress against her neck, and she arched instinctively, a soft sigh escaping her as his lips found the frantic pulse at her throat. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the feeling of his strong hands sliding slowly down her back, drawing her closer until not a sliver of night air could separate them. Every nerve ending sang with anticipation, a symphony of yearning composed in the silent language of trembling touches and shared, ragged breaths. In that suspended moment, surrounded by the whisper of the wind and the scent of woodsmoke, they existed only in the language of sensation, a prelude to a deeper, more profound connection. It was a silent conversation of the soul, spoken entirely through the tender mapping of each other's being under the watchful, starlit sky.
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