ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fire cast long, dancing shadows across the room, its warmth a gentle echo of the heat building between them. His hands, slick with fragrant oil, began a slow, deliberate journey across the landscape of her shoulders, feeling the tension begin to melt away under his touch. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound more musical than any words, as her head lolled back in complete surrender. Every stroke was a question, and every yielding of her muscles was a breathless, trusting answer. Her skin, glowing in the low light, became a map of whispered secrets and rising anticipation. He could feel the delicate flutter of her pulse beneath his fingertips, a frantic bird beating in time with his own racing heart. Her fingers curled into the soft fabric beneath her, gripping as a new wave of sensation washed over her, leaving her trembling. The air itself grew thick with the scent of sandalwood and the unspoken longing that hung between them. In the quiet intimacy, every brush of his knuckles against her spine felt like a promise, a silent vow of devotion. This was their private universe, a sanctuary built not from words, but from feeling, from touch, from the beautiful, aching tension of a shared breath held in the dark.
Comments
Post a Comment