ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light bled through her kitchen window, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor where we stood, our silence louder than any confession. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the line of my jaw, a question asked without a single word. I could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart answering the wild drumming in my own chest, a syncopated beat of shared, forbidden yearning. The air grew thick with the scent of her perfume and the unspoken tension that had built for months between our two quiet homes. A single, stray tear escaped her eye, and I caught it with my thumb, feeling its warm, salty truth against my skin. She leaned into my touch, her body curving to fit against mine as if we were two halves of a long-lost whole. Her breath hitched, a soft, broken sound that spoke of vulnerabilities finally laid bare. In that suspended moment, the entire world narrowed to the space where our bodies met, a silent conversation of aching need and tender discovery. I lowered my forehead to rest against hers, our shared breath creating a private universe where only this feeling existed. We were a secret poem, written in glances and gentle touches, a story beginning not with a shout, but with a soul-deep, trembling sigh.
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