Page 21 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
“You aren’t, little love,” he breathed against her lips. “I won’t allow that. Do you trust me?”
Cressida managed a shuddering nod. “M-More than anything.” And she did.
The fire in his eyes blazed brighter.
Lowering his head, he took the embarrassingly large, pebbled tip of her right breast deep into his mouth and sucked hard.
Cressida screamed, shooting her hips up and grinding herself against his fingers. Gritting her teeth, she rode his hand. And there was no shame. There’d be time enough for that later, and no doubt, plenty of it. She remained tunneled on the hot, unrelenting ache between her legs. It was exquisite and agonizing all at the same time. It called to her. Demanded all her focus.
Then she began to climb. Higher and higher to an unceasing precipice.
Benedict continued to coax with his fingers.
Cressida’s desperation grew. Wrapping her arms about Benedict’s neck, she gripped him tightly. Some part of her feared this ascent could never bring her to a point that would quench this primal, inexplicable yearning.
The brutal hunger in his eyes turned his dark blue eyes nearly black. His gaze bore through her soul, penetrating her.
And Cressida knew with a woman’s intuition—he would not leave her in this maddened state; he would save her. He would spare her.
Benedict palmed her breast.
As natural as rain in spring, Cressida squeezed her thighs tight around his hand, determined to keep him there. Every shred of embarrassment, modesty, and shock vanished as she became tunneled on finding relief in his arms.
He ran the pads of his thumb over each nipple, stroking them lightly at first. His caress grew increasingly determined, bolder, more demanding, even violent, which only added to her frenzy.
The burning sensation inside grew and grew. Her raspy breathing combined with his equally ragged one.
Benedict continued to toy with her nipples.
“Mmmm,” she moaned, her speech failing her, her desire robbing her of words.
“Have you ever had your nipples played with before?” he asked almost casually.
Too far gone with longing to be scandalized by the question Benedict put to her, Cressida shook her head wildly.
Benedict lightly tugged the oversensitive tips. He made a tsking sound. “I’ll have you say it, little love. Has any man before me played with these big nipples of yours?”
“No!” Cressida cried out.
Benedict pulled at them, and she hissed through her teeth.
“Ah.” This time he sounded playful. “You like it rough too.”
Cressida preferred it anyway as long as he touched her. If she had the ability to get full sentences out, she’d have said as much.
Benedict chuckled, his laugh too rough to be actual amusement. “What a delightfully naughty thing you are.”
She arched her hips, furiously grinding herself against him, knowing the fingers he stroked her with would be the answer to her prayers, the surcease from her suffering. Her body continued to climb toward some unknown goal, one she’d die if she did not attain.
“Please, help me, Benedict,” she wept.
“How pretty you beg,” he said soothingly. Then, while continuing to drive his fingers inside her at a steady pace, Benedict leaned down, took the swollen peak of her right breast between his lips, and sucked hard.
It was the answer to her prayers.
A flash of light appeared behind Cressida’s eyes, blinding her. Somewhere within, she heard sobbing, cursing, and hissing, and barely recognized the voice as belonging to her, but the hoarseness of her throat from those animalistic cries marked them as Cressida’s. At last, she found that glorious pinnacle.
“That’s it,” Benedict shouted to make himself heard over her wild keening. “Come for me, sweetheart. Just like you are.”
