Don't stare at his legs, don't stare at his legs, don't stare at his legs

Don't stare at his legs, don't stare at his legs, don't stare at his legs

As she walked into the room, she couldn't help but notice his long, muscular legs. They were toned and defined, a result of years of hard work and dedication to his fitness routine. She felt her cheeks flush as she tried to avert her gaze, repeating in her mind, "Don't stare at his legs, don't stare at his legs, don't stare at his legs."

But it was impossible not to notice them. They seemed to go on for miles, accentuated by the tight-fitting jeans he was wearing. She found herself mesmerized by the way his muscles flexed with each step he took, the way his calves bulged as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She couldn't tear her eyes away, despite her best efforts to maintain some semblance of composure.

She knew she was being obvious, that he could probably sense her staring at him. But she couldn't help it. His legs were like a work of art, a masterpiece that demanded to be admired. She found herself wondering what it would be like to run her hands along his smooth skin, to feel the strength and power that lay beneath the surface.

As she continued to steal glances at his legs, she couldn't help but feel a sense of longing. She wanted to be close to him, to feel the heat of his body against hers, to experience the raw physicality that seemed to emanate from him. She knew it was foolish to be so fixated on something as trivial as a pair of legs, but she couldn't help herself.