Page 20 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
His rogue’s grin deepened. “Then allow me, your first lover, to be the one to rectify that.”
Then, with an infinite tenderness, Lord Wakefield—Benedict—cupped Cressida about her nape, angled her head, and covered her lips with his.
And it was everything she’d ever dreamed of hundreds of times when she’d been alone in her bed or across from him in a ballroom.
Desperate for relief, desperate for him, she reached up and gripped him hard by the nape, pressing herself against him.
His body stiffened.
At her boldness, no doubt.
She shriveled inside and sank back onto her bare toes, then curled them in shame. “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered. “I’m behaving like a want—”
Benedict filled his right hand with her right buttock and squeezed hard, drawing her flush to his shaft.
She gasped.
“You are not to apologize this night, sweet,” he purred silkily, rubbing himself against the flat of her belly.
The steel-like feel of him caused an even greater tightening between her legs and she moaned; her hips moved reflexively and wildly.
He chuckled. As he lowered his head, she lifted her mouth to again take his kiss, but he buried his lips against her neck. His hot breath, tinged with brandy, was a warm sough that further fanned her reckless desire.
“There’s my good girl.” He whispered his praise against her skin, and then sucked the flesh where her pulse pounded.
Cressida cried out. Her legs collapsed, but he rooted his hand more firmly under her buttocks and anchored her against his hardness.
This time, Benedict took her mouth in a violent kiss, devoid of all his earlier tenderness, and her body burned for him so that she craved the ferocity of this embrace.
With her desire for him and the longing she’d carried for years for him, Cressida let herself go and opened her mouth and self to Benedict completely.
The women who’d spoken about physical desire at the Mismatch Society insisted women should feel no shame over their physical desires, and they’d even shared readings about how a woman could touch herself. Too afraid her brother would discover those materials and beat her for her wickedness, Cressida gently demurred.
And yet now, no book was needed. Cressida’s body took over, and she instinctively grabbed Benedict’s left hand and brought it between her legs, guiding him to where she needed him most.
At his errant husky chuckle, lost within her mouth, her shame proved great. And yet the feelings he roused proved far greater.
She faintly registered him guiding her backwards, and then the mattress was coming up to meet her, and Benedict was following her onto the cloud-like bedding; the satin sheets were cool against her exposed skin.
“I want to see all of you, sweetheart,” he whispered between kisses. “May I?”
Cressida knew if she said “no,” he’d honor her decision. The fact that he had the restraint and honor to do so only further enflamed her and her need to have him in this most intimate way.
All the while he slanted his hard lips over her softer ones, she felt his fingers expertly untying the laces at the front of her peignoir, and then along the side, until the strings fell away and the fabric sagged.
Instead of sliding the garment overhead, Benedict guided the whisp of fabric past her shoulders, down her waist. As he undressed her completely, he refused to relinquish her mouth, and she was so very grateful to him for it.
At last, Benedict lay beside her. He slipped a merciful hand between her legs and petted the place where she so badly hurt.
Cressida whimpered.
“Bloody hell, you are so wet for me,” he rasped, with such adamance as if to be the highest praise.
At his naughty words, her hips took on a life of their own. She bit at her lower lip and buried it against his shoulder. At his seeing her like this—a wild, hedonistic animal—she wanted to die, but Cressida would die if she didn’t find a break fromher untenable suffering. Even with her eyes tightly shut, in her mind, he was all she saw. Benedict, the Earl of Wakefield, big, powerful, blond-haired god of respectability, power, strength, and goodness.
He pressed the heel of four fingers against her.
“I’m going to die,” she wept.
