ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the still, warm air. His gaze was a physical touch, a slow, simmering heat that traveled over my skin before our fingers even brushed. That first contact was a spark, a silent gasp shared between our linked hands as he drew me closer. I could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart answering the wild drumming in my own chest, a syncopated beat of pure anticipation. His breath warmed my neck, a soft sigh that made my eyes flutter closed, surrendering to the sensation. Every movement was a languid, deliberate language, his palm a searing brand against the small of my back, pulling me into the solid warmth of him. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, this exquisite friction of clothed bodies moving in a silent, desperate dance. A low murmur, my name barely a whisper on his lips, sent a shiver cascading down my spine, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. I arched into him, a silent plea and an answer, my fingers tangling in his hair to anchor myself against the rising tide of feeling. In that suspended moment, we were not two people, but a single, breathless entity forged from melted heat and trembling, shared breath.
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