ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the dusty studio windows, catching in the fiery strands of Marley’s hair as she leaned closer. Her entire world had narrowed to the sensation of his calloused palm pressed against her own, a silent conversation of heat and texture that made her breath catch. He guided her hand with an almost reverent slowness, his thumb tracing a gentle, circular pattern over her knuckles that sent shivers racing up her arm. A soft sigh escaped her lips, lost in the intimate space between them, charged with an unspoken yearning that tightened her chest. She could feel the steady, strong rhythm of his pulse where their wrists met, a frantic drumbeat echoing the one suddenly thrumming within her. His eyes, dark and impossibly deep, held hers with an intensity that stripped away all pretense, leaving only raw, vulnerable emotion. The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of his skin and the faint, clean smell of turpentine from their earlier work. Every slow, deliberate movement of his fingers weaving through hers was a promise, a question, and an answer all at once. A flush of warmth spread from her core, painting her cheeks a delicate rose as she surrendered to the dizzying current of feeling. In that suspended moment, with the sun warming their skin, the simple act of holding his hand felt like the most profound kind of falling.
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