ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun cast long, golden fingers through the dusty attic window, illuminating Ava where she stood, a silent question in her wide, luminous eyes. He moved not with haste, but with a deliberate slowness that made the air between them feel thick and sweet as honey. One calloused hand, warm and sure, came to rest on the delicate curve of her waist, a possessive anchor that sent a visible tremor through her slight frame. Her breath hitched, a soft, surrendering sound lost in the moted light as his other hand cradled the nape of her neck, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse beating there. She felt both fragile and immensely powerful, a secret treasure being discovered and cherished in the quiet solitude. A soft sigh escaped her parted lips as he drew her closer, the world narrowing to the space where their bodies almost touched, charged with unspoken yearning. The scent of old wood and his clean, familiar skin filled her senses, intoxicating and safe all at once. Every gentle press of his fingers was a silent language, telling her of a devotion that was both tender and fiercely protective. Her own hands rose, trembling, to rest against the solid strength of his chest, feeling the wild, answering rhythm of his heart beneath her palms. In that suspended moment, she was not just held, but truly seen, her entire being awash with a profound and blossoming love.
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