ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The evening air was thick with the scent of ripening apples from the orchard outside, a sweet, intoxicating perfume that filled the quiet room. He stood by the window, the fading light tracing the line of his jaw as he turned to look at her, his gaze a tangible warmth that made her breath catch. She crossed the room slowly, the soft rustle of her dress the only sound between them, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. His hand, when it rose to meet hers, was calloused but incredibly gentle, his thumb stroking slow circles on her palm, sending shivers up her arm. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his pulse where their wrists touched, a silent conversation more intimate than any words. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, and she closed her eyes, drowning in the shared warmth of their breath. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a universe contained in the space between their almost-touching lips. Every nerve ending sang with a delicious, aching anticipation, a longing so profound it felt like a physical ache in her chest. In that suspended moment, she felt utterly known, her soul laid bare and completely safe in his silent understanding. This was a different kind of navigation, a journey charted not by maps, but by the unspoken language of trembling hands and yearning hearts.
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