His fingers paused in their caresses before slipping beneath the edge of her skirt and to the inside of her thigh. Evidently he liked the answer, she thought as her heart rate began to pick up quickly.
Several dozen pictures of other men, all soldiers, eyes hard, a few bitter, followed. Staring at each closely, Lyrica made certain they weren’t men she had come in contact with at any time.
Not that they were men she would have been attracted to at any rate. They weren’t Graham.
The next pictures were not of soldiers. Soft green eyes stared out from the photos, framed by heavy, thick black hair cut short to frame the delicate features of the woman whose pouty lips and sensual expression seemed to shout “experience.”
She didn’t look cruel, petty, or mean. She looked a little lost amid the sensual knowledge in her eyes, though, as if happiness wasn’t something she had ever attained.
This was Betts Laren.
She stared into the camera as though to seduce the photographer in each photo, always aware, Lyrica thought. This was a woman who always seemed to be aware that she was never alone.
Lyrica’s resemblance to her was unmistakable. She could have been a distant Mackay relative, it was so close.
“I do look like her.” Lyrica breathed in slowly, deeply, to hold back the flash of pain that he could have loved this woman, even unknowingly.
“No.” He sighed. “She looked like you, Lyrica. I took one look at her and all I saw was her resemblance to you.” Graham brushed her hair from her shoulder, his lips moving over the bared flesh there with a light, destructive caress. “I left here that summer with the scent of you in my head, the hunger for you eating me alive, and a month later she walked into my tent with that same secretive little smile you have, without the innocence I was so damned afraid of breaking in you. I wanted you so damned bad it was eating me away from the inside out.”
“I wasn’t running from you,” she reminded him, her head lowering, eyes closing as his lips moved to the back of her neck.
“Maybe I was the one running, Lyrica,” he stated softly. “I never even thought to question the dozen similarities she displayed to your expressions, your mannerisms. I should have.”
“I sent the letter the week you left for Afghanistan.” Her lashes fluttered as his fingertips trailed up the insides of both thighs, his short nails rasping the sensitive flesh. “I wanted you to know . . . I missed you.”
That wasn’t exactly what the letter had said.
“A real letter?” The scrape of his beard against her shoulder sent a shiver racing up her spine.
“Written in real ink with my real hand,” she drawled a second before her breath caught at the little nip he delivered to the shoulder he’d been caressing.
“I wish I could have read the letter,” he whispered as the hands caressing her thighs moved higher, to the edge of her panties.
His fingers were a whisper stroke of pleasure against the damp material of her panties. Her inner muscles clenched at the sweeping sensation of static heat and aching want. Even her nerve endings felt restless and far too close to the surface of her flesh.
Gripping the arms of the chair, Lyrica surrendered to him, to whatever he wanted, to one more memory to hold for the day when he no longer wanted her.
While his fingertips played above the silk of her panties, tormenting the flesh beneath and drawing more of the slick, wet heat from her body, his other hand moved to her side, tugging at the material of the shirt and pulling it over her breasts.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered at her ear. “Just lie back and enjoy it. Do you know how many nights I’ve jacked off imagining you just lying back, taking the pleasure I have to give you?”
“You didn’t have to imagine,” she whispered. “I was here.”
“And so sweet, so innocent.” He breathed against her ear a second before nipping it erotically, then placing a gentle kiss to the heated flesh. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to lose you in my life, Lyrica. I couldn’t imagine that.”
Lyrica closed her eyes, fighting back hope, pain, everything but the pleasure.
“Sweet Lyrica.” His lips trailed down her neck, his hand cupping the sensitive weight of her breast.
The feel of his finger and thumb gripping the nipple through the thin material of her bra with a firm, erotic pressure brought a cry from her lips. Arching into him, her hands clenched on the arms of the chair as pleasure suffused her. Her body tightened further when the hand caressing her thigh tugged at her panties until she helped him rid her of the material.
Dropping it to the floor, his fingers returned, parting the folds, stroking them before gently rimming the clenched entrance.
“Please . . .” she whispered, moving against the probing caressing. “Oh god, Graham. It feels so good.”
More of her heated dampness spilled to the fingers stroking the sensitive entrance to her inner depths.
“That’s my baby,” he groaned, two fingers spearing immediately inside the wet depths of her vagina as she arched back, crying hoarsely at the pleasure suddenly tearing through her. “Show me how wet and hot that pretty pussy gets for me.”