Page 25 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl (Seven Deadly Sins #4)

W akefield was no stranger to the complexities of women’s moods. It was a skill honed not in the ballrooms or boudoirs, but long before—born of necessity, shaped by family. As the brother to two sisters, each possessed of wildly different tempers and temperaments, he had learned early the art of reading the unspoken, of knowing when to press and when to retreat. One had been ruled by storms of feeling, the other by cool, cutting calm.

And then there had been his mother.

The Countess of Wakefield, widowed far too young, had been a study in elegant, relentless control—a woman with a will as sharp as cut glass and a grief she wore like a second skin. When fate had seen fit to name him earl while he was still too young to fill his father’s shoes, it had fallen to him to navigate the delicate, treacherous waters of both title and household—a world ruled as much by the countess’s moods as by the demands of the estate.

Those years, those women, had made him what he was.

And in the years since, he’d carried those lessons with him—applying them with effortless grace to the ladies he courted. It was a natural thing now, as instinctive as breath, to sense the tilt of a mood, the shift of a glance, the words left unsaid. He might have once thought himself a student of politics or estate management, but the truth was far simpler.

Wakefield had been trained all his life in a delicate, dangerous art—understanding women.

Though, given the two women he’d sought to make his wife had chosen another, one could argue easily and with good reason that he still had much to learn. But nevermore had Wakefield been or felt more out of his depth than he did in this instant. Maybe it was because though he’d been hurt twice before by the sting of rejection, he’d never himself hurt anyone in the way he had Cressida. And so he found himself at a loss. Armed with none of the proper responses, he also found himself utterly gut punched at the sight of her apparent grief. Grief which he had caused her.

Staring at her as she stared at him, her shoulders heaving, her face crimson red, her eyes angry and hurt all at the same time, it wrought a crippling tightness in his chest. Failing to have any of the right words, he gave her the only ones he had—the truth.

“You’re right, Cressida,” he said quietly.

She whipped back like he’d struck her. It was a blow he’d rather have turned on himself gladly than see her visible suffering.

“I don’t recall you. I don’t remember meeting you. I don’t even remember if we shared a set.”

“We did,” she whispered so achingly that his heart cracked open. “It’s why I thought you’d purchased me, because you knew who I was. I knew the kind of man you are and believed you were saving me.”

Funny that Wakefield had spent the better part of his life hating his father.

Certain he could never loathe anyone more than he had the late earl, he now discovered he was wrong yet again. He despised himself with every fiber of his being, with a vitriolic intensity that burned him up inside. His eyes slid closed. All along, she’d believed he was purchasing her to save her because he was an honorable, good man. Respectable . A gentleman who both ladies and men alike knew could be trusted, only to have proven himself as vile and corruptible as every last lord who visited The Devil’s Den, a club which he now owned.

That’s what happens when you dabble in sin, you get tangled up with the Devil. Evil seeps into your life and blackens your soul and turns you into someone you don’t recognize.

“I…I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to say.”

And then she did the unthinkable. She pardoned him.

“Benedict, you needn’t apologize. As I shared with Lord Dynevor that night, I wanted to be there.”

She’d said that several times now, and yet it didn’t make any sense. Why would she have wanted to be there? This woman who clearly carried herself with the grace and dignity of a queen.

Had she sought to know a night of passion?

That didn’t make sense either. Though all the same questions resurfaced in his mind, those he’d sort out later. Now, there was this woman whom he’d hurt and whom he wanted to heal and whose pain he wished to heal and take away, not out of guilt, but because the sight of her hurting so continued to make him bleed inside.

“What I was going to finish saying, Cressida,” he murmured, “was that I don’t recall you, and yet now that I’ve met you, I marvel at the fact you escaped my memory. Knowing you now, I could never, ever forget you.”

Her telling brown eyes went from hurting to soft, and then a rightful wariness flickered in those revealing depths. She didn’t believe him. Though, in fairness, what reason had he given her to believe in him? Though this time when Wakefield crossed over and stopped before her, Cressida did not retreat. Encouraged by that lack of recoil, he brought his hand up slowly and cupped Cressida’s smooth cheek, stained with flour and—

His expression darkened as his gaze caught upon the deeper, more pronounceable bruise upon her cheek where some man had struck her.

“What is it?” she whispered.

She’d sensed his mood shift and to tell her the truth would bring her and him to a place of darkness that he didn’t want to go to in this moment.

“You spoke about me being an honorable, good gentleman, but I’m not, Cressida. I’m a very flawed human being as you can attest to yourself. I bear the stains of guilt for unspeakable crimes against you. A young lady who’d been innocent before I stole your virtue and—”

“You didn’t steal it. I freely gave it.”

He ignored her defense of him. “For all the ways in which I’m flawed and for the mistakes I’ve made, I am still a man who does believe deeply in the truth. I’m not a liar, nor would ever be one. When I told you I didn’t remember you,” He grimaced. “that I don’t remember you, I gave you the truth.”

He centered his gaze with hers. “Just as when I tell you now that you are special in every way, that you are enchanting and fascinate me endlessly, and that I will never forget you, I mean those words.”

Her lips trembled bringing his gaze to that flesh he’d spent the past days longing for with the same intensity he had at The Devil’s Den when she’d first walked upon that stage. And maybe he wasn’t as honorable as he gave her assurances he was, for Wakefield found himself drawn, unable to resist the pull of her.

He wanted to be gentle for her and with her because that’s what she’d deserved all along. But what he gave her was all he was capable of—a mad rush of desire.

He took her lips in a fury, latching one hand about her waist even as he curled the other into her nape and angled her to receive his violent kiss. He needn’t have bothered. She’d already melted against him and lifted her arms up to wind them about his neck.

Moaning like a siren, she opened her mouth and let him in. They kissed with a like passion. They made love with their mouths. His tongue tangled with hers and hers in return danced with his.

“What is it about you?” he rasped between each frenzied kiss. “I am mad for you, Cressida.”

He filled his left palm with her buttocks and squeezed the flesh, dragging her even closer to his steel-hard shaft.

Her answer was to moan and rub herself against him like a contented cat who decided it needed more attention. He alternately licked and bit a trail of kisses along her nape, sucking lightly at that flesh until Cressida’s head fell back and a torturous moan spilled from her lips.

Wakefield guided her so that the edge of her lush buttocks rested upon the edge of the table and guided her muslin skirts up high enough that he could step easily between them. She instantly wrapped her legs about him, forcing him even closer.

A hiss slipped from between his teeth. He’d always considered himself a generous lover. When he bedded women, they always left his bed sated and fully satisfied, but nevermore had he existed with the sole intent of bringing pleasure to someone else, at any and all costs where he existed as a very secondary after thought.

Wakefield found that hot place between her legs, her curls drenched from her longing. He petted her and stroked her. All the while, his own desire grew to fiery heights.

At her very visible, spiraling passion, Wakefield took her lips again feverishly and continued to tease her and stroke her with his fingers.

That one night they’d shared at The Devil’s Den had led to a complicated, messy morning and every day thereafter. But from it, he had learned every last way in which Cressida longed to be pleasured. How she liked it, how she wanted it, and he devoted himself to her and her needs.

Falling to his knees, he parted her legs wider. Unlike the first time, she didn’t ask what he was doing. She parted for him. Wakefield buried his face between her legs and attended her. He licked at her, sucked at her folds, and drove his tongue within her in time to the same rhythm and motion that mimicked the very way he wanted to bury himself bollocks deep inside her.

Cressida moaned his name and took his head firmly in hand, tangling her fingers in his hair and forcibly keeping him where she wanted him, as if he had any intention of leaving. Wakefield renewed his efforts. He devoured her like the dessert she was.

Sweat beaded it at his brow. He could tell she was close.

“I want to taste you,” he pressed against her drenched curls. “Come for me.”

His naughty words always drove her over. That was something else he discovered about his winsome minx. Cressida’s body tensed, and even as he felt her body tighten up, he continued to eat her, and then, knowing it would drive her over the edge, he slid a finger inside and teased that most sensitive place that drove all women wild.

Cressida’s body went completely stiff and then, crying out his name, Cressida came violently.

She ground herself against his face and wept, screaming his name, pleading and begging.

Wakefield didn’t let up until she’d sagged against the table. Her entire body went limp when she was replete, and she laid down like the table was her mattress.

He placed a gentle kiss upon the creamy expanse of her slender thigh and guided her skirts down. She continued to lie there, staring up at the ceiling, her hands folded upon her stomach as if in prayer.

Wakefield took up the place next to her, and they remained that way for he knew not how long. Time didn’t really seem to exist with Cressida. When he was in her company, the practical things called seconds, minutes, and hours ceased to be.

At last, he felt her body shift and knew before she even looked at him that she was turning her head. This is where the magic ended. This is where the moment merged and shifted and brought them crashing into reality.

Reluctantly, Wakefield angled his head towards hers, slowly bracing for the inevitable shame, regret, and sadness she wore so often because of him. Instead, a soft smile played with her lips still swollen from their kiss.

“Would it be wrong if I said that was far more delicious than any bread I’ve ever baked?"

Wakefield went still and then erupted into a full boisterous laugh.

Cressida’s like mirth melded like a song with his own.

Wakefield angled himself and slid a hand under her head. He drew her about the shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Both their bodies were shaking with laughter.

When he’d sought out Markham, he’d gone to the man knowing Cressida Smith was a danger to him. What he’d not anticipated was the very terrifying way she made him feel inside, and long for things he’d long ago given up on believing in.