ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The evening air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, a sweet perfume that clung to our skin as we stood in the soft lamplight. His gaze was a tangible caress, warming me more than the summer night ever could, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. Slowly, his fingers traced the line of my jaw, a whisper of a touch that sent shivers cascading down my spine. My own hands found the solid plane of his back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath his shirt as he leaned into me. Every gentle stroke of his thumb against my palm was a silent question, and my answering sigh was a fervent, unspoken reply. The world narrowed to this single room, to the space where our bodies communicated in a language older than words. A soft moan escaped my lips as his hand cupped the nape of my neck, his touch both possessive and reverent. I could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart answering the wild drumming of my own, a synchronized beat of shared longing. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until our foreheads touched, sharing the same charged air. In that suspended moment, every careful touch was a profound discovery, a map of pleasure written upon our trembling skin.
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