Page 27 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
As forbidden as his prediction proved to be, the truth within them was greater. Cressida couldn’t meet his knowing and faintly gloating expression. She hid her face against his side and stroked him in the way he tutored her.
Pride be damned, Cressida remained powerless to the need within her that sent her hips bucking against his palm. “B-Benedict?” Something was happening to her. Some overwhelming feeling she’d never experienced, let alone identify or name, came over her. Surely, she was on the cusp of death.
“Ma petite is ready to go again, is she?” His teasing voice emerged low and husky.
When she stole a peek at him, she caught the unforgivingly hard grin on his beautifully formed mouth. His smile hadn’t always been so empty. There’d been a time when it’d been full and sincere and almost shy. From afar, she’d witnessed him bestow that gift upon so many others, once even Cressida, back when they’d first been introduced. She’d mourned its eventual transformation and remained painfully aware of the reason for the death of his beautiful smile. Never had she missed it more than she did in this moment.
And here she’d believed there could be no emotion she felt more painfully this night than horror, terror, and desire. But here it was.
Humiliation—deep, soul-crushing humiliation.
She jerked her attention back to his shoulder. She couldn’t look at him, but neither could she stop driving herself against his masterful fingers.
“Look at me.” His voice, low and faintly feral, commanded, leaving Cressida with no other choice but to obey. “You’ll feel no shame in what we do here. Is that clear?”
Somehow, she managed to nod.
Intuitively, the speed with which she stroked him grew more urgent; her grip upon him tightened.
His eyes clenched shut, Benedict groaned and rocked his hips into her hand. “Yes, just like that,” he urged, faintly pleading. “God, you are so good.”
The hungering that’d turned her into an animal, now easily identifiable, threatened to break her apart. Moaning and crying, she moved wildly against his hand, desperate for another release.
All she knew was that only Benedict could help save her. “Please,” she sobbed, grinding herself against his fingers. “I’m on fire, Benedict.”
Just as she knew, if he didn’t help her and soon, she’d surely die in his arms.
This had gone on long enough.
When it came to bedsport, he was as much a master of restraint and self-control as he was in his business dealings.
But this libidinous bit had pushed Wakefield to his limit.
His breath coming in savage spurts, he climbed astride her. Wedging a knee between hers, he parted her and lay between her sweet thighs to worship at the altar of her womanhood.
All the while, the wanton beauty gazed adoringly up at him with a warring trust and hunger.
“My cock is the first you’ve ever taken inside you,” he said throatily, sliding himself gradually inside her, inch by bloody agonizing inch.
As gone as Wakefield himself, she closed her eyes and made some incoherent reply as she took him.
Sweat beaded at his brow. His muscles strained. “You are so bloody tight,” he marveled and praised. “I’ve never felt one tight as yours. I want you—”
“Cressida,” she supplied like he’d been actually looking for that personal form of address, which he hadn’t.
Cressida.
Not: Lady Aurum.
Now, his burning lover had an actual name. It added a layer of intimacy to an act that was purely primitive and primal in nature. A layer that he didn’t want.
Wakefield took her mouth in a quick, hard, punishing kiss and ended it just as she opened her lips to receive him. “I was going to say, mon mimi,” he breathed, shifting his attention to more hedonistic grounds.
Filling a palm with one of her small, pert breasts, he guided the gentle swell to his mouth. “You have beautiful nipples,” he praised.
All the while, he kept sliding deeper and deeper into her folds, sinking himself.
With a herculean effort, she lifted her long lashes. “Do I?” she asked languorously.
