ManoJob
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The evening sun bled through the window, casting long, warm shadows across the quiet room where the only sounds were our mingled breaths and the distant city hum. His hand, calloused yet impossibly gentle, found the small of my back, a silent question in his touch that I answered with a slow, melting sigh. My fingers traced the weary lines of his shoulder, feeling the tension of a long day begin to unspool beneath my hesitant caress. He leaned his forehead against mine, our eyes closing as we shared the same air, a sacred space built from trust and unspoken longing. The scent of clean cotton and his faint, familiar cologne wrapped around us like a soft blanket, a comforting and intoxicating shield from the world outside. A soft murmur escaped his lips, not a word but a feeling that vibrated against my skin and settled deep within my chest. I felt his heartbeat through my thin scrubs, a frantic rhythm slowly syncing with my own, creating a private, percussive song just for us. Every movement was a slow, deliberate dance, a language of care expressed through the brush of his knuckles against my cheek and the way my hand rested over his steadying heart. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a glowing ember of connection where professional composure gently dissolved into personal surrender. In that suspended moment, there was no past or future, only the profound, healing pleasure of being truly seen and held.
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