60 Second Hand Job

ManoJob

Manojob Pic(s)

The city lights blurred beyond the rain-streaked window, a silent, shimmering audience to the quiet drama unfolding within the warm, lamplit room. His breath hitched as her fingers, cool and deliberate, first brushed against his skin, tracing the tense lines of his forearm with an artist’s curiosity. A soft sigh escaped his lips, his head tilting back against the plush chair as he surrendered to the exquisite tension building in the air. Her touch was a language all its own, a slow, deliberate conversation spoken through pressure and release that made his entire world narrow to this single point of contact. He watched, mesmerized, as her focus remained entirely on her task, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration, her own breathing soft and even. Every gentle squeeze of her hand, every slow, purposeful stroke sent waves of warmth radiating from his core, melting the cold armor he so often wore. The air grew thick with the scent of rain and her faint, floral perfume, a heady mixture that made his senses swim with a dizzying, profound longing. His fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers, clutching for an anchor as a powerful, trembling vulnerability washed over him, leaving him utterly exposed. It was a minute that felt like a lifetime, a suspended moment where every nerve ending sang a silent, desperate hymn of gratitude and need. And as her movements finally stilled, a profound and tender quiet settled between them, more intimate than any embrace.