ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading afternoon light painted the room in hues of gold and shadow, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended wishes. His breath hitched, a soft, vulnerable sound as my fingers traced the line of his jaw, feeling the subtle tension there begin to melt away. A sigh escaped his lips, not of words, but of pure feeling, as my touch drifted lower, mapping the landscape of his collarbone with a reverence usually reserved for sacred things. His eyes, dark pools of liquid trust, never left mine, speaking a language older and more profound than any our voices could form. The world outside our quiet sanctuary ceased to exist, the only sound the rhythmic whisper of our shared breathing and the gentle rustle of cotton. I could feel the steady, strong pulse at his wrist quicken under my thumb, a frantic drumbeat echoing the emotion swelling in my own chest. Every shift of his body, every quiet gasp, was a verse in a poem we were writing together with skin and soul. His hand found mine, not to guide, but to simply hold, our fingers lacing together in a silent promise of mutual surrender. The air grew thick with the scent of his skin and the unspoken words hanging between us, a perfume more intoxicating than any flower. In that suspended moment, touch was not merely physical, but the very conduit for our deepest, most wordless affections to finally speak.
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