Every item in Guinevere's "sleepwear" drawer was designed for a locked door and an audience of one.
The audience had doubled.
She had been above the covers lying on top of Maddox for hours while he pulled fever from her body. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her hardened nipples poking through the thin lace like they were begging for attention. Her thighs straddled his hips, pressing her core firmly down onto his throbbing erection.
His dragon, predictably, was no help. It had been purring against his ribs for hours, entirely too pleased with the arrangement
His hips twitched once involuntarily.
A baby pink camisole and shorts. Lace. Silk. Absolutely no goddamn coverage. The tamest thing she owned because of Maddox and Maddox alone.
He had opened that drawer last night like a man defusing a bomb. Every option was worse than the last. It was the winner by default, which said everything about the drawer and nothing good about his judgment.
