ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading sun cast long, trembling shadows across the room, gilding the dust motes dancing in the warm, still air. His fingers, calloused and sure, traced the delicate line of her collarbone with a reverence that stole her breath. A slow, knowing smile played upon his lips as he watched her eyes flutter closed, a silent testament to the tension coiling deep within her. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted through the open window, a sweet, intoxicating perfume that mingled with the simple warmth of his skin. Every gentle brush of his knuckles against her arm was a whispered promise, a deliberate delay that made her heart hammer against her ribs like a captured bird. He leaned in, his breath a soft caress against her neck, a ghost of a touch that promised everything and granted nothing. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between their almost-touching bodies, charged with a silent, aching music. She felt her own pulse thrumming in her wrists, a frantic rhythm answering his patient, unhurried cadence. This was a language of anticipation, spoken in sighs and shared heat, in the quiet space before a storm. It was an exquisite torture, a beautiful ache she never wanted to end.
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