Shirt and jeans

She slips into his shirt and jeans the second the door clicks shut. His scent clings to the cotton, warm and heavy, like last night still hanging in the air. It hits her low in the belly. The denim hangs loose on her hips, the shirt sleeves swallow her hands, and every breath pulls that deep, sharp smell right into her chest. She drops back on the bed, rubs the fabric between her fingers, then slides one hand down the open fly. Fingers find skin fast. She works in tight circles, slow, then faster, thighs squeezing the denim while the perfume keeps every thought pinned to him. Soft, wet sounds fill the quiet room. She arches, breath stuttering, chasing the same rush he left her with hours ago. The shirt rides up, jeans slide lower, and she keeps rubbing until the ache breaks and her body goes tight and shaking under his clothes.