ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The last rays of the sun bled honey-gold through the window, casting long, dancing shadows across the room where the air itself seemed to hold its breath. His gaze was a tangible warmth upon her skin, a silent question answered by the slight, trusting part of her lips. He moved with an artist’s reverence, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw, a touch so feather-light it was almost a memory. A shiver, delicate as a falling petal, coursed through her, and her eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the symphony of sensation. Every slow, deliberate caress was a whispered secret against her flushed skin, speaking a language older than words. Her breath hitched, a soft, broken sound that hung in the fragrant air between them, a testament to the emotion swelling within her chest. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a universe contained in the gentle exploration of his hands. She arched softly, a silent plea for more, her fingers tangling in the sheets as a wave of pure, undiluted feeling washed over her. It was a slow, beautiful unraveling, a journey not taken with haste but savored with every trembling heartbeat. In that suspended moment, there was only the exquisite, wordless poetry of touch, and the profound intimacy of being utterly known.
Comments
Post a Comment