ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading sun bled gold and violet across the quiet room, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move with the rhythm of our shared breath. His gaze was a tangible warmth, a soft inquiry that my own eyes answered without a single uttered word. I felt the whisper of his knuckles as they traced the line of my jaw, a touch so light it was almost a memory, yet it sent a cascade of shivers down my spine. My own hand rose to meet his, our fingers intertwining like roots seeking the same deep, hidden spring. The air grew thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the faint, intoxicating fragrance of his skin. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not of sorrow, but of a profound and aching surrender to the moment. I leaned into the solid comfort of his chest, hearing the frantic, answering drum of his heart against my ear, a wild syncopation to my own. In that suspended silence, every nerve ending awoke, humming with a current that was both terrifying and exquisite. The world outside the window ceased to exist, leaving only this sacred space where two souls dared to be completely, vulnerably known. It was a silent conversation of yearning, a promise whispered not with sound, but with the entire language of the body.
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