ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the quiet room, catching in the dust motes dancing in the still air. He stood before her, his posture a silent question, his breath catching as she slowly lifted her hand. Her fingers, cool and gentle, first traced the line of his jaw, feeling the subtle tension held there. Then her palm came to rest flat against his chest, where she could feel the frantic, rhythmic drumming of his heart echoing her own. A soft sigh escaped his lips as her touch traveled down his arm, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. She felt the solid strength of his forearm beneath her fingertips, a quiet power held perfectly in check. His eyes, dark and deep, never left hers, speaking a language of trust and yearning that needed no words. Every movement was a deliberate caress, a slow, tender exploration meant to soothe and awaken in equal measure. The world outside the window seemed to blur and fade into insignificance, leaving only this sacred, silent space between them. In that suspended moment, her touch was not just a physical act, but a profound conversation, a gift of intimacy that left them both trembling and utterly seen.
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