He tossed the shirt on the bed and walked silently to her.
He took the shirt, his smile wry.
"Let's go," Alex said, tucking his shirt into his pants.
From his square-toed boots to the white shirt tucked into indigo jeans, his lean frame was something to admire.
Beginning at his dusty oxfords and indigo blue jeans, her scrutiny continued up to a neatly tucked in worn white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to mid arm.
There she changed into jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers.
She walked stiffly to the closet, deciding quickly on a pair of blue jeans and a light shirt with a collar that would hide most of her neck.
She glanced down at her shirt and then laughed with relief.
"Let go of my shirt, Adrienne," Brandon said as he grabbed her shoulders.
She relaxed her grip on his shirt and allowed him to guide her back to the couch.
He paused with a shirt in his hand, his expression surprised.
He dropped the shirt and stepped over to her.
He nibbled at her shirt and she ran her fingers across his velvety muzzle.
As if in answer to her question, he dug a tin from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
She turned her back on Bordeaux and pulled her shirt from her pants, unbuttoning it so that the water could reach the sweat stained area under her breasts.
He waded out of the water and laid his socks and shirt on a rock in the sun to dry.
She could set her clock by his arrival - eight o'clock every Friday night - in a blue plaid western shirt and battered black cowboy hat.
She stretched out on the rock, its warmth penetrating her shirt and further relaxing her muscles.
Through his shirt sleeves she could feel the swell of his biceps and her heart jumped into high gear.
She inspected a tee shirt of mine, sniffed it with disgust, and tossed it into a trash can across the room.
Life would be filled with mutual concessions I thought as I tucked my tee shirt into a bottom drawer.
Jeans, sneakers and a Harvard tee shirt made up her attire.
He was wearing a shirt and his unfastened necktie was hanging in my face.
She wore an oversized shirt and boxer shorts, neither of which was hers.
A tall, toned woman who looked like she did Pilates for a living stood in the hall in tight black leather pants and a tight pink T-shirt that drew attention to her large breasts.
"Don't have time, don't want the drama," he replied and swiped his T-shirt from the ground.
She wore a T-shirt and shorts that revealed her shapely, soft legs.
He wore only jeans and a dark T-shirt that stretched across his chest in all the right places and clung to bulging biceps.
Dusty was quiet, and Jule searched the floor for his shirt and jacket.
He wore a snug T-shirt that displayed the roped forearms covered in tattoos.
The jeans, T-shirt, and sandals would suffice.
When he rejoined her, he'd put on a T-shirt and sandals.
Damian pulled off his sweater to reveal a black T-shirt and tucked weapons into his cargo pants, boots, and pockets.
He cut her shirt open while it charged and placed the paddles against her chest.
"Han said you were out doing battle last night," she said, noticing the shredded T-shirt on the floor.
I will probably absorb vitamins through my skin as my shirt detects I need them.
Then I began to pity myself, and I saw that it would be a greater charity to bestow on me a flannel shirt than a whole slop-shop on him.
As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me.
The prisoners in their shirt-sleeves were enjoying a chat and the evening air in the doorway, when I entered.
When it was very cold, embers from the soldiers' campfire were placed on a bent sheet of iron on the steps in the "reception room"--as Denisov called that part of the hut--and it was then so warm that the officers, of whom there were always some with Denisov and Rostov, sat in their shirt sleeves.
One morning, between seven and eight, returning after a sleepless night, he sent for embers, changed his rain-soaked underclothes, said his prayers, drank tea, got warm, then tidied up the things on the table and in his own corner, and, his face glowing from exposure to the wind and with nothing on but his shirt, lay down on his back, putting his arms under his head.
A short stout man of about thirty, in white breeches and high boots and a batiste shirt that he had evidently only just put on, standing in that room, and his valet was buttoning on to the back of his breeches a new pair of handsome silk-embroidered braces that, for some reason, attracted Rostov's attention.
"A soldier on leave--a shirt outside breeches," he would say.