He lied.
That asshole motherfucker lied.
Lied. To my face.
To.
My.
Face.
My glare could melt steel, but Lucas just pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling with the movement. Our blanket is clutched tight against my chest—not that there's any point in modesty after last night, but right now I need all the armor I can get.
He gets ideas when he sees my bare skin.
"You lied to me."
"Did I?" His eyebrow arches as he buttons his jeans. "We showered."
"Oh, is that what you call what happened in there?" Heat floods my cheeks at the memory. My skin bears the evidence of his attention—little marks scattered across my collarbone, my breasts, my thighs. Everything aches in the most delicious way, but that's not the point. "You said we'd clean up."
"And we did." His lips twitch. "Eventually."