ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The rain traced silver paths down the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a soft, golden haze as Mali stood close to him, her breath a warm mist against his collarbone. She could feel the steady, heavy rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, a silent drum answering the unspoken question in her eyes. His hand, calloused and gentle, came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking the delicate line of her cheek as a shuddering sigh escaped her lips. The air itself felt thick with the scent of petrichor and his faint, clean cologne, a fragrance that made her head feel light and her knees weak. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, and in that suspended moment, the entire world contracted to the space between their almost-touching mouths. Every nerve in her body was alive, humming with a desperate, sweet anticipation that coiled low in her stomach. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her as his fingers traced the sensitive line of her neck, each touch a brand of tender possession. She arched into him, a silent offering, her hands sliding up the strong plane of his back to pull him closer, needing to erase every last whisper of space. This was not a surrender, but a convergence, two separate wills melting into a single, yearning current. In the quiet intimacy of the room, with the storm as their only witness, she gave herself over completely to the overwhelming tide of feeling.
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