ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The city slept under a blanket of stars, its distant hum a soft lullaby as his fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of my spine. A shiver, entirely his doing, danced across my skin, raising tiny constellations of feeling in its wake. My breath hitched, catching in my throat as he leaned closer, his warmth a solid, comforting presence against me. The scent of his skin, clean and faintly of sandalwood, filled my senses, becoming the only air I wished to breathe. Our foreheads touched, a silent conversation passing between us in the quiet darkness of the room. His thumb gently brushed my lower lip, a question asked without a single word, and my silent answer was the way I turned my face into his palm. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, this electric space where our bodies communicated in a language older than speech. A soft sigh escaped me, not of surrender, but of profound recognition, as if my soul had finally found its harbor. Every nerve ending felt alive, singing a quiet, desperate song that only he could hear. In that suspended moment, wrapped in the velvet night, we were the only two people left in the universe, bound by a tenderness that felt both terrifying and utterly, completely right.
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