ManoJob
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The champagne flute trembled in my hand, its delicate chime the only sound in the velvet-hushed room. His gaze was a physical warmth, a slow caress that started at my temple and traveled down my neck, raising invisible sparks in its wake. He didn't reach for the glass but instead for my hand, his fingers gently prying mine loose to intertwine with his. A single, cool droplet of champagne fell from the rim and traced a shivering path over my wrist, a sensation he followed with his thumb, his touch erasing the chill and replacing it with a flush of heat. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, his presence an intoxicating blend of citrus and night air that made my head feel light. The world narrowed to this space, to the soft crush of velvet beneath us and the unspoken promise in his hooded eyes. I felt my walls crumbling, not with force, but with the gentle, persistent pressure of his silent admiration. His other hand came up to cradle my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheekbone with a reverence that made my heart ache. In that suspended moment, I was laid bare, not by any action, but by the sheer intensity of being truly seen. A soft sigh escaped my lips, a silent permission for everything yet to come.
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