Even without a mirror I could tell that the thin cloth was clinging to me, hugging my curves all the way down to the middle of my thighs.
The ragged cloth of his jeans clung to the hole like the petals of an unopened flower.
The soaking cloth of the uniforms on our tightly packed bodies clung to all of us-gray-green for the Germans, violet-brown for the Russians.
Soaked through, the cloth clung to the form of a woman underneath.
Uniforms had become a thing of the past anyway, and at least the cloth did not cling to his body.
The cloth clings to my mouth and nose and panic sends my heart hammering and my lungs heaving.
The fine cloth caught and clung against his unwashed skin, mottled still with the ravages of frostbite and cold.
The cloth clung to the bone as he tried to remove it.
The crisp white cloth flared and clung to her in the right places.
She had finally taken off her armor after the thirty-six-hour forced march to the Tree, and the wet cloth of her green dress clung to her slight body.
