ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading Carolina sun cast long, golden shadows across the quiet studio, gilding the dust motes dancing in the warm, still air. He stood so close I could feel the gentle heat radiating from his skin, a silent promise that made my breath catch. His gaze, heavy-lidded and intense, traced the line of my jaw before dropping to my lips, leaving a phantom touch more real than any physical one. A single, calloused finger lifted slowly, his knuckle brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek with an agonizing tenderness. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a wild drum answering the unspoken question in his dark, searching eyes. The scent of his cologne, something clean and faintly of sandalwood, wrapped around me, pulling me deeper into this intimate bubble we had created. I saw the conflict in the slight tremor of his hand as it hovered near my face, a battle between desire and reverence that mirrored my own. A soft, shaky sigh escaped me, the only sound in the hushed room besides the frantic pulse I was sure he could hear. His thumb gently swept across my lower lip, a whisper of a touch that sent a cascade of shivers down my spine, awakening every nerve ending. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between our almost-touching bodies, charged with a longing so profound it felt like a physical ache. This was a different kind of hunger, a slow, sweet seduction built on breaths and glances, a feast of anticipation before the first, inevitable taste.
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