ManoJob
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The afternoon sun streamed through the tall Parisian windows, casting long, golden shadows across the worn Persian rug. His voice was a low murmur, a warm current that seemed to vibrate in the small space between our chairs. I watched the way his fingers traced the elegant script of the poetry book, his touch seeming to linger on the curve of each letter. My own breath caught when he leaned closer to correct my pronunciation, his shoulder brushing mine in a whisper of contact. The scent of his cologne, something like old books and sandalwood, wrapped around me, intoxicating and intimate. His gaze held mine, and in that silent exchange, I felt a profound and thrilling vulnerability. A slow, tender smile touched his lips as I finally formed the phrase correctly, his approval washing over me like a physical warmth. The world outside the window, the distant hum of the city, all of it faded into a soft, indistinct blur. My heart was a wild, fluttering thing against my ribs, a captive bird finally learning the language of its sky. In that quiet room, we were not just student and tutor, but two souls conversing in a dialect of unspoken, aching desire.
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