ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the faint dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten secrets. Christie’s breath hitched as a single, warm finger traced the delicate line of her collarbone, a touch so light it was almost a memory. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the wave of warmth that spread from that point of contact, a liquid heat pooling deep within her. His scent, a familiar mix of clean linen and something uniquely him, filled her senses, anchoring her to this suspended moment in time. A soft sigh escaped her lips as his hand slid to the small of her back, pressing her closer until she could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart against her own frantic beat. The world outside, with its noise and demands, simply melted away, leaving only the hushed language of their shared breathing. Every nerve ending felt alive, hyper-aware of the rough texture of his cotton shirt against her cheek and the gentle pressure of his palm on her skin. It was a silent conversation, spoken in the language of trembling touches and lingering glances that spoke volumes more than words ever could. In that quiet room, time seemed to stretch and bend, wrapping them in a cocoon of intoxicating intimacy. This was more than mere closeness; it was a homecoming, a feeling of absolute rightness that settled deep into her soul.
Comments
Post a Comment