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Then a bikini so small I'm fairly certain it was designed by a man with a vendetta.

I can feel Everett behind me now without even looking. The heat of him. The silence of him. The very obvious effort not to say a word while I expose the contents of my honeymoon luggage across the bedspread like a very erotic yard sale.

I finally whip around, one hand full of lace and my face on fire.

"I told you Everly threatened to do this."

His jaw is tight enough to crack teeth. His eyes drag once over the bed, then up to my face, then away again like the act physically costs him.

"Yes," he says, voice rougher than it was downstairs. "You did."

"There have to be actual clothes in here somewhere."

I turn back and continue digging, muttering under my breath as more lingerie emerges.

"This is absurd. No one needs this much lace. Is this even structurally sound? There's no way this top qualifies as a garment in multiple countries."

A low sound comes from behind me.

I freeze and glance over my shoulder.

Everett has one hand braced against the bedpost, head tipped down, eyes closed for a brief, dangerous second like he's actively trying not to come undone in the middle of the room.

Then he opens them and walks to the dresser.

No hurry. No wasted movement. Just control strapped over the top of something that looks one bad second from breaking loose.

He opens a drawer, reaches in, and pulls out a plain white T-shirt.

When he turns back, he holds it out to me.

"Here."

I stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the T-shirt.

"What's this?"

"What you're sleeping in," he says.

I take it automatically. The cotton is soft and cool from the drawer.

"And if I wanted to sleep in one of these?" I ask before my brain catches up to my mouth.

His eyes drop once to the black lace draped over my wrist.

When they come back to mine, they are dark enough to make my pulse jump.

"Then I'd advise you not to do it in front of me."

My breath stalls.

The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.

I set the lace down carefully, because my hands have stopped being especially reliable, and clutch the shirt instead.