Salvage by Jason Nahrung Page B

and she felt like she had when she’d been dating Richard for the first time, feeling him stripping her with his eyes.
    Helena leaned back in her chair. Her eyes shone with a faint green glow in the candlelight.
    ‘How have you been, Melanie? You seemed … unsettled last night.’
    ‘I’m fine. Not sleeping so well. Maybe it’s the weather.’ She sipped her tea, too hot to gulp. She leaned back, trying to mirror Helena’s relaxed pose, to convince herself there was no ulterior motive in her being here. Helena was just a lonely foreign woman who was too direct in expressing herself, and Melanie was too insecure to know how to react. A fresh runnel of sweat trickled down her spine and she bent forward to ease the discomfort.
    Helena plucked at Melanie’s sleeve. ‘You always wear such baggy clothes, Melanie. Yet you have a wonderful figure, full, like a woman’s. Me, I have a boy’s body, don’t you think?’
    ‘Not at all.’ She thought of Richard ogling Helena’s cleavage the night before. He’d spit chips if he thought he’d been drooling over a boy. The idea made her grin.
    ‘It’s funny?’
    ‘No, no, it’s nothing. Just remembering something.’
    ‘So why, Melanie? Even when you swim, you wear your clothes. I find it strange.’
    Melanie shrugged, the humidity bearing down on her, the cabin closing in. She put her cup down, her hand shaking.
    ‘Here.’ Helena kneeled, pushing the coffee table out of the way. ‘It’s all right, Melanie. I am your friend. Your dearest friend.’
    She caressed Melanie’s cheeks, her eyes locked on hers. In the semi-darkness, Helena’s face shone like sunlight through dark honey, her teeth bright against her lips. Lips that moved closer. Melanie’s heart thumped in her chest but her limbs were weighted down. The world was dark except for Helena’s eyes and the glint of light on her parted lips, the tip of her tongue. Her lips met Melanie’s. Quietly, gently, patiently pressing against hers. Melanie breathed out and Helena sucked in her breath.
    Indecision made a statue of Melanie as she felt the gentle pressure, heard the distant smack as the contact was broken and then resumed, this time with nibbles of lips and teeth, teasing at her mouth sealed tight. She had to leave. This was not right. But she didn’t move, couldn’t move, just breathed and stared into Helena’s eyes. She blinked, the resistance broke; she opened her lips and sighed. Helena’s hands fell to her throat, her shoulders. She worked Melanie’s lips until Melanie returned the pressure.
    Helena stood, drew Melanie to her feet and led her upstairs to the bed. By the time Melanie lay down, she was naked. Helena leaned over her, stripping to reveal her lithe, flawless figure, her budded breasts anointed by nipples with no aureole at all, a thick thatch of pubic hair between her legs. 
    Good on her for not shaving, Melanie thought, for flying the flag of her maturity. Much to Richard’s chagrin, she hadn’t waxed in months, but that wasn’t defiance: it was camouflage.
    And then thoughts of her scar and of Richard fled as Melanie surrendered to Helena’s touch. She saw dark wetness on Helena as she lifted her lips from between Melanie’s quivering legs and straddled her chest. Musk flooded Melanie’s senses. She resisted, momentarily, then fingers found her and she opened again and her tongue moved hungrily of its own volition. Helena clamped Melanie’s face to her groin, grinding into her lapping tongue until she came with a breathless moan.

    Melanie lay next to Helena, breathing in the heady scent of dead roses, so strong in the heat of the cabin. She could feel stickiness on her lips and chin, salty when she tasted it. She wanted to wash, but her limbs were limp, and she didn’t want to disturb Helena, lying so restfully beside her, her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. A single smear of blood, like smudged lipstick, dotted her chin.
    Melanie slowly rolled on to her back,