ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The city slept under a blanket of distant, silent stars, their cold light a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his body so close to mine. His fingers, with a hesitant grace I could feel in the quiet dark, began a slow exploration of the skin along my forearm. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a silent, desperate hymn as his touch traced invisible patterns that felt like a forgotten language. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not a sound but a visible cloud of breath that hung between us for a fleeting moment. I leaned into the solid comfort of his chest, hearing the frantic, answering rhythm of his heart against my ear. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a burning brand of pure sensation that erased all thought and fear. His other hand came to rest gently on the curve of my waist, a possessive yet reverent weight that anchored me to the spot. I tilted my head back, my eyes closing not to block out the world, but to fall more completely into the feeling. In that suspended silence, every whisper of fabric, every shared breath, was a symphony of aching tenderness. This was not a taking, but a sublime, mutual surrender to a connection that felt both terrifyingly new and eternally familiar.
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