I slipped out of my wet jeans and shoeslightly, quietly.

"Why not" had been growing in his wet jeans for a few minutes now.

"Then help me peel off these wet jeans and leave the poetry for another night."

I slipped out of my wet jeans and shoes lightly, quietly.

A breeze made my wet jeans cold and penetrated my jacket.

In my bedroom, my wet jeans, still draped over the chair, had made a blue puddle on the floor.

The temperature had dropped during the course of the day, and the chill seeped through my wet jeans.

After a moment's consideration, he peeled off the wet jeans as well.

She wouldn't be lost with wet jeans and bleeding wrists.

I was struggling with the dead man's wet, slimy jeans, trying to work them down his hips and thighs.