ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The old library was a cathedral of quiet, filled with the scent of aged paper and dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light. He watched her from across the study carrel, his gaze a tangible warmth on her skin as she traced the gilded letters of a poetry book’s spine. Her breath hitched when his hand slowly covered hers, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of her wrist in a silent, rhythmic question. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound of surrender that seemed to echo in the hushed space between them. She turned her palm to meet his, their fingers intertwining in a perfect, desperate fit that made her heart flutter wildly. He leaned closer, his forehead gently resting against hers, their shared air becoming a sweet, intimate atmosphere all their own. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his pulse where their hands joined, a frantic counterpoint to the slow, tender brush of his nose against her cheek. In that suspended moment, the world outside the tall, leaded-glass windows simply ceased to exist, its noises fading into a distant, irrelevant hum. Every nerve in her body was alive, hyper-aware of the heat radiating from him and the soft whisper of his cotton shirt as he moved. This was a language beyond words, a conversation of trembling touches and breathless proximity that promised a new, beautiful beginning.
Comments
Post a Comment