The thought had never crossed his mind in all the hundreds of years he'd been alive—until you came into the picture. He had to internally reprimand himself for staring, nearly getting caught numerous times, but the sight was too captivating to resist.

Whenever you wore those skirts—the tight ones that would ride up—he felt lightheaded. And when you sat down, watching the tender flesh of your thighs seem to double in size, he was sure he was climbing a ladder to heaven. What he wouldn't give to bury his face between them. It was almost pathetic, and he wasn’t ashamed.

His desire showed clearly one evening, when the two of you were in your room. It was the weekend, and you’d invited him over, as you often did, to show him some movies he’d never seen before. He sat next to you on your bed, his eyes once again lingering on your thighs in the shorts you wore.

The movie wasn’t even halfway over when he suddenly asked, "Can I lay my face on your thighs?" The fact that he asked with a stoic expression made it clear—he really was shameless.