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His boxer shorts ending up on her butt back in Chicago, when they reunited, should have been his first clue: Sara is a borrower.
Not that he minds it.
She drinks from his glass, steals from his plate, uses his razor to shave her legs, grabs the book he's reading before he's finished it... He could go on and on. But mostly, she scrounges off his clothes.
Not only doesn't he mind it, but he also enjoys it. A lot. He likes the notion of her in his clothes; he loves the intimacy it implies; he basks in the feeling of closeness.
Today, it's one of his shirts – a plain, white linen shirt – that Sara targeted and stole. He watches her move in it, swallows hard and asks with a raspy voice, "Do you have any idea what you wearing my clothes does to me?"
She smiles, but he barely notices it. He's too focused on the way the soft material kisses her shoulders, brushes her hips and buttocks and makes you imagine the swell of her breasts. As far he's concerned, the whole thing is a study in false decency.
She spins on her heel to face him, to plaster herself against him, stomach to stomach and her arms tight around his neck. Maybe it's the thought of his scent all over her because she didn't wash the shirt before shrugging it on; or it's the thought of her scent all over him when he gets the shirt back, later; possibly it's just because he can picture the moment he'll remove it from her, slowly and teasingly. Whatever the reason, all he's able to do is wrap his arms around her and hold her close. He can feel her grin when she presses their mouths together; he can taste the orange juice she sipped from his glass when she gently licks his lips.
When she finally answers, her eyes are twinkling with mischief.
"Do you have any idea what me wearing your clothes does to me?"
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