ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the grand windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing around their still forms. His hand, resting on the small of her back, was a brand of pure warmth, a silent promise that seeped through the thin silk of her dress. She tilted her head, her temple brushing against the steady, comforting thrum of his pulse at his jawline, her eyes closed to better feel the symphony of his quiet breaths. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken words that passed between their locked gazes, a language of longing and tender curiosity. A single, stray strand of her hair caressed his cheek as he leaned in, his own breath catching at the faint, floral scent that was hers alone. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the strong line of his shoulder, learning its landscape with a reverent touch. In that suspended silence, the world beyond the glass ceased to exist, leaving only the intimate geography of their closeness. He could feel the fine tremor that ran through her, a mirrored echo of the wild rhythm within his own chest. It was a moment of perfect, breathless balance, a precipice before the fall into something beautiful and unknown. Every point of contact sang with a quiet, radiant heat, a performance of pure feeling for an audience of two.
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