Melissa looked at me.
Her thighs pressed together once — soft, wet skin sliding against soft, wet skin — then slipped apart again on the slick tile with a quiet, open sound. Both hands stayed high on the rail. Water ran off her elbows, her chin, the tips of her breasts in slow, heavy drops that fell straight to the floor.
"Please."
The word left her mouth the same way it had been leaving her head for the last few minutes — raw, stripped of everything except need.
I didn't move.
I wanted it to stay. For her. For me.
This was not the woman from the mission room. Not the director. Not Monica's sister. Colour sat high in her face, bright across her cheekbones and down her throat. Her mouth was still open on the last of the word. Her eyes held mine as if looking away would cost her something she couldn't afford. Short white hair plastered flat to her skull, a few wet strands stuck to her forehead and the side of her neck.
