ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The moon cast long, silver shadows across the quiet room, its pale light catching the delicate curve of her smile as she looked up at me. Her breath hitched when my thumb gently traced the line of her jaw, a silent question hanging in the space between our shared glances. I could feel the frantic rhythm of my own heart answering the soft, quick pulse at the base of her throat. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted through the open window, mingling with the faint, familiar perfume she always wore. She leaned into my touch, her head tilting as her eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the feeling. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound so intimate it felt like a secret whispered just for me. My fingers tangled gently in her hair, and I felt her shiver, a delicate tremor that spoke of longing held back for far too long. In that suspended moment, every unspoken word from years of stolen glances finally found its voice in the quiet language of our bodies. The world outside, with all its rules and reasons, faded into an indistinct hum, leaving only the warmth of her skin beneath my hands. This was a forbidden melody we had started to compose, note by trembling note, under the cover of the conspiratorial night.
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