ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The rain traced silver paths down the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a soft, golden haze as he finally stepped closer. His thumb, warm and gentle, brushed a stray droplet from my cheek, his touch sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill. I could feel the quiet intensity of his gaze as it traveled over my rain-dampened skin, each look a silent question that my body answered with a slight, willing tremble. The scent of petrichor and his subtle cologne wove an intoxicating spell around us, sealing us in our own private world. A soft sigh escaped my lips as his hands settled on my shoulders, his palms a comforting, solid warmth that seeped through the thin, wet fabric of my dress. I leaned into him, my forehead resting against his collarbone, listening to the frantic, hopeful rhythm of his heart. His fingers traced the line of my spine, a slow, deliberate caress that made my breath catch and my knees feel weak with a profound, aching need. In that suspended moment, every whispered promise and unspoken dream was communicated through that simple, electrifying contact. The world outside, with its noise and haste, melted into a distant, irrelevant murmur, forgotten. We were simply two souls, laid bare by the storm, finding shelter and a profound, wordless understanding in each other’s arms.
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