L.L. Foster - The Kindred

“A bath?” She stopped, and Luther bumped into her.

His hands went to her waist. “I don’t yet know how badly your arm is hurt, but given how you shrug off near death, I’m assuming the necessity for a bandage means it’s significant.”

“Not really.” To chase off the lethargy, Gaby took the rest of the stairs two at a time. At the top step, she glanced over her shoulder and said, “Got grazed by a bullet, that’s all.”

She went on down the hall and into the bathroom before she realized Luther hadn’t followed. Wondering what kept him, she started back out just as he came stomping in, and they nearly collided.

Gripping her shoulders in an iron hold, Luther took deep breaths that flared his nostrils and brought a flush to his face.

Rolling her eyes, Gaby pulled free of him and began unwrapping the bandage. “Get a grip, Luther, it’s not all that. And I’m a quick healer, if you remember. In a few days it’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look appeased, but Gaby paid no mind to his fast-shifting mood. “In fact, I plan to get a tattoo around it to hide any scar that might be left behind. I was told that normally a person has to wait at least a year for that, but I’ll convince the tattoo artist otherwise, no problem there.”

He smashed a finger to her mouth.

Not a good thing to do to a person like her. Gaby no sooner had that thought than she was struck with the realization that there were no other people like her.

She swatted Luther’s hand away with an overdose of irritation. “Don’t push it, cop.”

Still visibly struggling, he gave a stiff nod. “But do not start calling me that again. Use my name, damn it.” He turned and started the bathwater.

Gaby crossed her arms and stared at the gorgeous muscles in his back. “I prefer a shower.”

In a carefully moderated tone, he asked, “Have you ever had a nice long bath?”

“Well . . . ” She looked at the steam rising from the water as it filled the tub. The thought of soaking in that heat, relaxing, made her muscles go weak. “Not really, no.”

“Why?”

Most times, cautious of being caught off guard, she rushed through even her showers. “Showers are quicker.”

“You’re telling me you don’t have enough free time to indulge in a bath?”

“It’s not about having free time. It’s about being preoccupied.” When he still didn’t understand, she made a face. “I can fight naked if I have to, but it wouldn’t be my first preference.”

He paused, turned to stare at her, and then: “What?”

“Lounging around in a tub is a good way to be taken unawares.”

He seemed to droop before shoring up his determination again. “You’re safe enough here.”

“Yeah, right.” Her tone reeked of disdain. “No one is truly safe anywhere.”

“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess that explains the steel door and all the locks where you used to live, huh?”

Where she used to live—because he thought she had completely moved in here. Gaby relented . . . a little. “I suppose that once the water is off, we’ll be able to hear if anyone breaks in.” She lifted her chin. “I have superior hearing, you know.”

“You have superior everything.”

He said that with visual attention to her too thin, too lanky body.

She shook her head. “You’re deranged.”

“Only with you.” Luther opened his jeans and stepped out of them. He folded them and placed them on top of her clothes. “I’ll join you in the tub, if that’s okay.”

They’d both be naked in there? Together? Gaby made up her mind. “A bath it is.”

Luther swallowed all his demands for details until after he’d gotten Gaby settled in the steaming water in front of him. He positioned her with her back to his chest, her injured arm resting on the side of the tub, out of the water.

Though she hadn’t elaborated, just knowing that a bullet had caused the blood-crusted, burned furrow filled him with rage. That bullet had no doubt been meant to hit something more vital. Only Gaby’s quick reflexes had saved her from more serious injury—or even death.

And Gaby treated it as a trivial nuisance.

Any other woman, and most of the men he knew, would be popping pain pills and pampering that gruesome injury.

But not Gaby. Hell, she barely acknowledged it.

Lifting her wrist so he could examine the wound more closely brought a wave of guilt over Luther. His throat tightened. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She snorted as if he lacked the ability to do so, then thought to ask, “When?”

All around the area where the bullet had abraded her, the swollen flesh felt hot to the touch. “When we were”—he started to say making love , but to keep from alarming her anew, he changed it to—“having sex.”

“God, no.” She tilted the back of her head to his chest and looked at him upside down. “That was great.”

Even in the face of his staggering worry, Luther gave a small smile. Knowing he had satisfied Gaby went a long way toward keeping him on course with his plans.

He kissed her wrist. “That was what we call a quickie.” He fetched a washcloth and the soap. “Sit up a minute.”

“Why?”

Gaby never gave over easily. Life with her—which he was aiming for—would be one struggle after another. “I want to take care of you.”

Half turning to face him, she gave him a speculative glance. “Like . . . sexually again, you mean?”

She looked so hopeful that he almost relented. “No, I meant that I want to wash you. Then I want to bandage your arm again.”

Her scowl showed what she thought of that plan. “I’m able to wash myself.”

“Trust me, Gaby.” He smoothed aside her wet hair and, using the sudsy washcloth, started on her nape. It took a few minutes, and he was working the cloth halfway down her spine before she relaxed and let her head drop forward.

“That is . . . nice.”

He wanted to care for her always. And somehow, he would. After using the cloth to massage her back and shoulders, he put it aside and used both hands to rinse her. “Get on your knees and turn to face me.”

His heart hammered as she complied without a word. The steam in the room left her lashes spiky, her cheeks flushed and rosy. He knew well that Gaby considered herself a less than pretty woman. Sometimes she barely acknowledged her own humanity. Her life as a tool to combat gross iniquity had left her with a far from complimentary view of herself.

To him, she was by far the most striking, admirable, and appealing female he’d ever met.

Staring at her breasts, he soaped up the cloth again and started on her slender throat. Just beneath her pale skin, her pulse beat frantically. When he shifted, bathwater lapped at her narrow waist.

Gaby was all straight bones, sleek muscles, and female pride.

Slowly, Luther massaged over her shoulders, her collarbone, down over her nipples. She tipped her head back a little and held her breath.

Dropping the cloth, Luther covered her soapy breasts with his hands.

“Luther?”

“Hmm?” The soap made her nipples slippery, adding a new sensation to his touch.

“You’re not going to get me all excited and then stop again, are you?”

“No.” He teased her nipples with his thumbs, gliding around them, under them, not quite touching her as he knew she wanted. “How did you get shot, Gaby?”

She stiffened, but he’d anticipated that reaction from her, and lightly caught her nipples, tugging, rolling.

Her tension coiled tighter. “Drug dealers,” she managed to say.

Luther held the burgeoning anger at bay, anger at Gaby for putting herself in peril—again—and a hotter rage at whoever had dared to try to hurt her. “What about drug dealers?”