ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The city slept under a blanket of stars, its distant hum a quiet symphony for our hidden world. His fingers, usually so sure and steady, trembled as they first brushed against my skin, a silent question whispered into the dim light. I answered with a slow, deliberate turn of my wrist, inviting his touch, my breath catching as his palm settled with a warmth that seeped deep into my bones. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not of words, but of pure feeling, a sound that seemed to hang in the air between us. He leaned closer, his forehead gently resting against mine, our shared breath creating a private universe within the room. Every movement was a language of its own, a slow, tender conversation spoken only through pressure and release. I could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart echoing my own, a wild, synchronized drumbeat against the quiet night. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a profound connection that felt both startlingly new and achingly familiar. Tears, born not of sorrow but of overwhelming tenderness, pricked at the corners of my closed eyes. In that suspended moment, I understood this was not merely a touch, but a quiet surrender, a breathtaking discovery written on the skin.
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