ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The city slept beneath a blanket of oppressive, moon-baked heat, but in our room, the air was alive with a different kind of electricity. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path from my shoulder to my wrist, a silent question that made my breath catch. I answered by turning into him, my forehead finding the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the wild drum of his heart keeping time with my own. The world outside faded into a distant hum as his lips found the sensitive curve of my neck, a whisper of contact that sent shivers across my skin. My own hands learned the landscape of his back, feeling the shift and flex of muscle under a faint sheen of perspiration. A soft sigh escaped me, not from the stifling air, but from the overwhelming tenderness of his gaze when he pulled back to look at me. Our lips met in a slow, deep exploration, a conversation of longing and promise that needed no words. Every nerve ending felt alight, hyper-aware of the press of his body against mine, a perfect, searing fit. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared rhythm of our breathing and the dizzying sensation of falling and being caught simultaneously. This was a different kind of storm, a beautiful, quiet tempest built from shared glances and the unbearable sweetness of almost.
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