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

C ressida had wanted to cry any number of times this night.

One time, she had.

Ironically, as she found herself bustled off the stage before the auction concluded, to a bevy of boos and hisses at the abrupt end to bidding, Cressida wanted to toss her head back and sob at her failure.

The sandy-haired guard, Mauley, ushered Cressida down a brightly lit corridor, onward toward the back entrance she’d arrived through a lifetime ago.

She’d been spared the horridness of being sold off to a debauched lord. A true lady would no doubt feel relief at the sudden change in her circumstances. But Cressida hadn’t been born a proper lady. Her brother inherited a fancy title, but Cressida was still just the same poor country squire’s daughter she’d always been. She didn’t have a good name. She had no respectable familial relations.

All she had was Trudy, and if she allowed the guard to toss her out of The Devil’s Den, Cressida wouldn’t even have that.

They walked silently, and Cressida stared blankly at her escort’s broad, black-uniformed back.

When she’d first been first presented before the audience of crude, vulgar, leering gentlemen, she’d caught the Earl of Wakefield’s gaze.

His had locked with hers too. For a ceaseless moment, the horror around her vanished into silence, and she and Lord Wakefield existed as the only two people present.

He recognized her.

She’d spotted the flash of shock, confusion, and concern.

And she might not know him personally, per se, but she’d witnessed his interactions with her friend, whom he’d courted, and she’d listened to Anwen describe the manner of gentleman he was. She’d seen him across crowded rooms, being unfailingly polite and kind—even to ladies who weren’t the sought-after Diamonds. He’d even danced with Cressida—once. She’d read the papers, all of which never had anything nice to write about anyone, making an exception on the earl’s account.

And when Cressida’s brother took the little their family had and pissed it all away, it’d been the tales of how Lord Wakefield saved his family from the dire straits his sire left them in, and built a better, bigger future, that’d made her fall head over heels in love with him.

He was going to save her. She’d been so sure of it. Even with him being engaged in an intense conversation with the Earl of Dynevor, Lord Wakefield’s eyes stayed on Cressida.

In her mind, he would have put forward a bid to put an immediate end to the auction, stormed the stage, draped his jacket about her shoulders, and swept her away.

That dream had lived but a moment in her mind.

Because the only way in which Lord Wakefield could save her was by falling madly in love with her, marrying her, and, in so doing, providing a home, security, and safety to both she and Trudy.

Alas, she wasn’t a dreamer. She had no reason to be.

In the end, whether he’d intervened or not hadn’t mattered. Her circumstances remained the same either way.

Cressida and the guard, Mauley, began to near the end of the hall she’d arrived at earlier in the night.

The exit.

Desperate to put a stop to her departure and make the guard return her to the bidding action, Cressida grabbed his arm. “Stop,” she ordered, her voice shamefully husky.

The guard’s muscles, firm and broad, jumped under her touch. Her feverish body, aware in a way it’d never been before, betrayed her, and she gripped him more tightly.

His eyes grew heated.

Disgusted with and ashamed by her body’s response, she yanked her fingers back.

Mauley’s demeanor abruptly changed. He examined her more closely. “Would you like me to call the carriage?”

She opened her mouth to immediately reject that offer, and then stopped. His hadn’t been a statement but rather a question. Which meant she wasn’t being shown out.

Which also meant she’d been bought by someone after all.

Funny that for all her panic of moments ago, she didn’t feel so much as a hint of relief.

Although, why should she? She didn’t want to let some stranger put his hands on her and his manhood inside her. The prospect her friends had once described and declared magnificent, Cressida had already decided sounded horrific.

“Lady Aurum?”

She jolted and returned her gaze to a narrow-eyed Mauley. Confused, she stared at him. What had he been saying?

“As you know, Dynevor gives you the freedom to leave, my lady. You’ll receive a small stipend for your troubl—”

“No!” she exclaimed, this time in full-throated defense. “I want to be here.” Had to, anyway. “Wh-why was the auction stopped?”

“It isn’t my place to know.” He shrugged. “The Devil doesn’t answer to anyone, miss, but he’s found you someone,” the guard promised, leading Cressida onward.

That fickle emotion called hope flared to life. Wakefield’s figure flickered in her mind, and she couldn’t stop the thoughts from rushing in of the earl holding her close, cradling her tenderly in his arms, and taking her lips in a gentle meeting that would be her first kiss.

The image proved too great, too real. Cressida moaned.

She shot a hand out and grabbed the guard’s forearm. “Who is the gentleman that secured me this night?” she asked breathlessly.

This time, the man’s ginger brows shot up and his nostrils flared as he took her response to be a product of the hunger buffeting her body and not for the hope it was.

“I can’t say.” Guilty color flooded the man’s thick neck. “I’d love to be of assistance, my lady.” The big man’s hooded eyes failed to conceal his desire and regret. “But Dynevor said no one’s to put a hand on you.”

Realizing she still touched him, and the way he misconstrued her response, Cressida swiftly released him.

“No!” she exclaimed, her humiliation growing by the second. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to imply…” Cressida trailed off. What was the point in defending her virtue?

Clearly appeased this time, the handsome guard turned and, without waiting to see if Cressida followed, led them eastward down the opposite hall.

Cressida made herself quicken her steps and followed along after him. All too quickly, they arrived at a set of stairs. He paused and gestured for Cressida to precede him.

She looked up the length of the marble steps and then began her ascent.

With Mauley at her back now, and her fate getting closer with every step, it felt as though the walls were closing in. Her panic began to spiral. Everything was happening so fast. The horrific reality facing her became embedded as an immediate nightmare and no longer as an abstract event that would eventually befall her.

They reached the main landing. Surprisingly well-lit and with gilded sconces, crystal chandeliers, and Giallo Siena marble floors, this space of sin was elegant enough to be any respectable peer’s residence.

Maybe that’s the reason for the effort and coin the earl had put into these suites. With the luxury to match the lifestyle of his lofty clients, it presented an illusion that they were still good, honorable noblemen.

She despised them all.

“Dynevor wants you escorted to the Juno-Jupiter room,” Mauley explained. “He’s waiting for you.”

Her stomach fell. “Dynevor?” she echoed hollowly.

“Aye.”

The Devil, as in Dynevor, wanted her for himself. Life was fast proving all men, in their own way, were all devils—just different sorts.

Tears filled her eyes. The time had come, and something about knowing the identity of the man who’d take her virtue made what would happen in but a few minutes real. In her head, she’d processed what was to come. She’d known she’d lay with a stranger and give herself in the most intimate way, but knowing it and being on the cusp of living that experience were altogether different.

And yet, even as revulsion filled her, the ache between her legs had become excruciating. All she wanted to do was stretch and squirm to escape it, and God help her, she feared her body would betray her morality this night.

Mauley brought them to a stop. “Here we are, my lady.”

Then, with nothing more than that brief pronouncement and a short bow, the guard left.

Shaking, Cressida ran her damp palms along her diaphanous gown; her own touch set off a different tremble within. She stared at the painted doorway.

The naughty painted tableau depicted Jove, king of sky and thunder, with his consort, Juno. The severe beauty knelt in supplication, her palms resting upon her philandering husband’s thick thighs and her mouth inches from his manroot.

She bit at her lower lip.

As a virtuous lady, the scene should horrify Cressida. Instead, the salacious tableau sent a fresh wave of longing through her.

Face flaming, she wrenched her panicky gaze skyward, only to face a mural with a different—and even more shameful—tableau. A horned Lucifer with one beauty on her knees, his manhood in her mouth, while another woman offered him her breast like it was the temptation that’d gone and ruined mankind for the rest of them.

Good God, is this what Dynevor expected of her?

She wanted to rip her hair out, scrape her jagged nails over her face, and wail.

Imagining doing these things and having them done to her were entirely different.

“Lady Aurum, we meet again.”

Gasping, she wheeled to face the young man—more of a boy in age, really. His eyes marked him decades older than his tender years. Embarrassment, coupled with the even more humiliating yearning between her legs, made it hard to look at him.

“L-Lord Dynevor,” she greeted.

Cressida tried to say something more but came up empty. She had nothing. She couldn’t finish a thought.

After all, what did one say to the gentleman who’d bought her and would take her virginity?

Nor did he bother with polite pleasantries, which she appreciated. “Have you changed your mind, Lady Aurum?”

With her mouth dry as the dust that filled the townhouse she called home, Cressida didn’t have enough moisture to form an actual word. She managed to shake her head.

That didn’t appear sufficient for the earl. “I trust Mauley reminded you that you’re free to leave at any—”

“He did,” she cut him off. Fear for Trudy proved greater than Cressida’s fear for herself or the lust that stabbed between her legs. “I choose to be here.”

And in her need to care for her former nursemaid, she did.

Satisfied, Dynevor nodded. “You were probably wondering at the abrupt end to bidding.”

His wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “I did.”

“One of my confidantes showed an interest in you. As the proprietor, I made the decision to call the event and gift you over to him.”

Gift her over…? She should be horrified.

Except, Cressida clung not to the latter, but the former. One of his confidantes showed an interest in her? He’d been seated with Lord Wakefield. Her heart thumped madly. Her belly fluttered like a thousand butterflies had been set free within her.

“Lord Wakefield is a good, honorable sort.”

Through the hope in her breast, it took a moment for Cressida to sort out her thoughts from the Earl of Dynevor’s words.

“Lord Wakefield?” she found herself echoing, afraid to hope, afraid to dare believe.

The proprietor of The Devil’s Den inclined his head. “Aye.”

Oh, God. Cressida’s legs went weak. He’d saved her after all.

The earl grunted. “He’s a good fellow.”

He was the best. A memory slipped in of a previous Season when she’d been standing miserably on the side of the ballroom, as usual, while every other lady around her was whisked off for a set, then two, then three, then four, and so on, by various gentlemen. Not a single one of whom had noticed Cressida existed.

That was, except for the Earl of Wakefield.

“…may I have this set, Miss Alby…?”

They’d been introduced by Anwen Lesar, né Kearsley. He’d been the only gentleman to dance with Cressida that entire night.

“Unless,” Dynevor said into the awkward silence she’d left, lost in her ruminations, “you take exception at not having your auction seen through to completion, my lady. In which case, I can inform Wakefield and—”

“No!” she cried out, giddy with relief. She knew it! He had recognized Cressida. “Please. No. He is…” Heat slapped her cheeks. “ It is perfect,” she swiftly corrected herself.

The earl gave her another long look and for a terrifying moment, Cressida believed she’d given herself away by revealing her abiding admiration and regard for Lord Wakefield.

Finally, Lord Dynevor nodded. “As you wish.”

Ironically, this had been the only dream she’d indulged in these years—the Earl of Wakefield. Never had she believed it might come true.

As Cressida let herself inside the Juno-Jupiter Room, she felt the proprietor’s eyes boring a hole into her.

The moment she’d shut the door behind her, Cressida rested her back against the elaborately painted panel. Her eyes slid shut.

Benedict .

Her heart thumped and for the first time this night, terror wasn’t the reason for its drumming.

Lord Wakefield was, even now, on his way to Cressida.

Biting at her lower lip, she fought—and failed—to keep a moan from slipping out. She’d not believed it possible, but the fire that’d been set within her with the drug she’d taken burned like an all-out conflagration in thinking about Benedict.

That wicked hungering no longer felt dirty but directed at the one her heart had always pointed to.

Tears filled her throat.

Since she’d discovered her brother’s requirement of her, Cressida had, in knowing she’d have to give herself to a stranger, been riddled with fear and horror.

He’d saved her.

What did she even say to him under such auspicious circumstances? A gentleman such as the Earl of Wakefield wouldn’t have any idea of the horrid, shameful acts people such as her brother were guilty of.

Click.

She opened her eyes and found him standing there.

Her pulse picked up.

Benedict.

Without taking his eyes from her, studying Cressida in the same intent way he had during the bidding, Lord Wakefield pushed the door closed behind them and turned the lock.

Funny all the fear she’d known this night should suddenly be forgotten.

“Lord Wakefield,” she said, her voice husky with gratitude and a desire that’d only strengthened the moment he stepped through the entryway.

Color splotched his cheeks. “I’m not a gentleman who takes part in such debauchery.”

Warmed at his being embarrassed by his presence here, she spoke on a rush. “I know, my lord.”

Her hasty assurance seemed to have the opposite effect. His perfectly chiseled, hard lips tightened and tipped down at the corners.

“Take off your mask,” he commanded.

With fingers that shook, Cressida immediately complied. He looked at her as though she were a stranger.

“As I said, this isn’t my usual taste in bedsport, but I find myself making an exception for you.”

Then, as he walked slowly towards her, his words registered, as did the heated glint in his eyes, and the truth struck her square between the eyes.

He…wanted her in the physical sense.

He’d come not to save her as she’d believed, but instead to claim her virginity.

And what did it say about Cressida that the truth of it didn’t break her but left her feeling more alive than she’d ever felt in her entire life? That her body should come alive even more, and the temperature of the heat flowing in her veins soared.

Lord Wakefield—Wakefield? Benedict? What was she to call him at a time like this?—stopped when they were less than a breath apart. Her body afire, she swayed closer, arching herself nearer so that his chest brushed her breasts.

The barely-there fabric she wore did little to conceal the breadth and power of his muscular chest.

She couldn’t stop herself from rubbing against him in a bid for relief or the wanton little whimper that slipped out. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, her face awash with mortified heat. “Th-this is all n-new and I—”

He touched a fingertip to her lips. A rogue’s grin she’d never before seen him don curled his lips into a sensual masterpiece of male beauty. “You needn’t feel ashamed.”

“Shame is all I should f-feel,” she said miserably, her lower lip trembling.

Lord Wakefield brushed the pad of his thumb over that flesh, and this time she fought to keep from rocking her hips against him.

“Look at me.” When she hesitated, Lord Wakefield caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger in a firm, commanding touch. He steered her gaze to his. “There’ll be no shame. Not with me, sweet.”

Not with him. He spoke of himself being different than other men, and for Cressida, he always had been. Her throat moved wildly. On top of that, he’d added an endearment to his avowal.

Just like that, she fell in love with him all over again.

Lord Wakefield—no, Benedict. From this day forward, he’d only ever be Benedict.

“Don’t be afraid, little love,” he murmured huskily.

“I could never fear you, Benedict.”

His enigmatic blue eyes darkened.

“I’m going to kiss you, little love.”

Little love.

The promise of his words, the husk of his voice, and the latest endearment he spoke pulled another moan from her.

“I-I am not good at this. I’ve never…”

“Been kissed before?” There was a smile in his voice.

Cressida nodded jerkily.

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 from her 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.

“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.”