ManoJob
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The fading afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the quiet room, each one a silent promise of the evening to come. His gaze was a tangible weight, a soft heat that traveled over my skin like a slow, deliberate caress. I felt my breath catch as his fingers, with infinite patience, traced the delicate line from my wrist to the inner curve of my elbow. A shiver, entirely separate from the cool air, danced down my spine, awakening every nerve ending. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the unspoken language flowing between our joined hands. My heart hammered a frantic, hopeful rhythm against my ribs, a drumbeat echoing the longing I saw reflected in his darkened eyes. He leaned in, and the scent of him—clean linen and warm skin—filled my senses, becoming the only air I wished to breathe. In that suspended moment, every whispered secret and shared glance culminated into this profound, aching need. The space between our lips vanished, not with urgency, but with a tender, soul-deep recognition that felt like coming home. And as we finally kissed, the last of my reservations melted away, leaving only the pure, radiant truth of surrender.
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