ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading afternoon light painted the room in hues of gold and deep shadow, catching the dust motes dancing in the air between us. His approach was not a question but a quiet statement, the floorboards whispering under his deliberate weight. A calloused hand, surprisingly gentle, cupped the curve of my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with a reverence that stole my breath. I felt my composure soften, a silent surrender as he guided me back a single step, his other hand a steady, warm pressure on the small of my back. The world narrowed to this space, to the scent of his skin and the faint sound of our synchronized breathing. Every shift of his body against mine was a word in a language only we understood, a push and pull of unspoken yearning. My fingers found the worn fabric of his shirt, clutching lightly as a shuddering sigh escaped my lips, a sound of pure, unguarded emotion. He leaned his forehead against mine, his eyes holding a storm of tenderness that made my heart ache with its intensity. In that suspended moment, I was both fragile and unbreakable, cherished within the confident circle of his arms. This was not a capture, but a delicate, mutual claiming of souls.
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