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 like tiny, suspended wishes. His gaze was a tangible warmth upon her skin, a silent question that her own eyes answered with a trusting surrender. He moved closer, the space between them vanishing into the shared heat of their breath. His hand, when it finally cupped her cheek, was not a demand but a reverence, his thumb tracing the delicate arch of her brow. A soft sigh escaped her lips as his fingers began a slow, deliberate exploration, learning the landscape of her shoulder, the sensitive curve of her neck. Every brush of his skin against hers was a whispered promise, a conversation spoken in a language older than words. She arched into his touch, a silent plea for more, her own hands finding anchor in the fabric of his shirt. The world outside the window ceased to exist, the only sounds being the rustle of clothing and the soft, rhythmic cadence of their breathing. A tremor ran through her, a wave of pure, undiluted feeling that made her fingers tighten their grip. In that suspended moment, there was no past and no future, only the profound, heart-stopping art of his hands telling her a story of devotion.
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