Page 31 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

T he towel settled over Stan’s shoulders, soft but at first cool and rough against his skin.

Wendy’s hands brushed the edges, ensuring it was snug before stepping away.

There was an unhurried elegance that made his pulse thrum with sharp awareness.

He exhaled slowly, watching her scan the room, her gaze darting to the table, where she finally found a comb.

She picked it up with a faint smile that hinted at amusement, as if her search carried secrets he wasn’t privy to.

“Is this silver?” she asked.

“Yes, I’ve had it all my life.”

Then, Wendy returned to him. Slowly, tenderly, she lifted the comb and began.

The first touch of its teeth against his scalp sent a shiver down his spine.

Her hands followed, slipping through his hair with gentle insistence, her fingertips grazing his skin now and then.

It wasn’t just the motion—though that alone was enough to seize his attention—but the way she loitered, as if every stroke held a purpose beyond mere practicality.

Then she went to the wash-table in the corner, wet her hands, and returned to him. She drove her fingers through his hair.

Her fingers slid deeper, weaving through the unruly waves, tugging softly at the ends of his hair when they caught.

Each pull was tantalizing, a temptation dragging him deeper into thoughts he had no business entertaining.

Time seemed to stretch absurdly long beneath her touch, yet every second she spent combing felt stolen, and wrong to want, and impossible not to.

“You have beautiful hair,” Wendy said at last, her voice low, intimate, the words rolling easily, as though speaking them aloud was indulgence enough. “Thick and dark…it’s the kind of hair most people envy.”

Heat flared across Stan’s chest and climbed his neck, invisible flames she couldn’t possibly see—or could she?

He didn’t dare look at her, not when every nerve, every corner of restraint in him, was locked on guarding that thrum of tension building steadily within.

Instead, he remained silent. Gathering what control he could, Stan leaned over, snagged another towel off the side table, and settled it across his lap casually—or as casually as one could when his body felt charged, every pore aching with awareness.

Stan rested his hands on the towel to keep it stretched in place.

Wendy resumed her work. Scissors whispered through the air, sliding steadily as she trimmed the sides, focusing with a precision that exposed him to every careful motion.

The back of his neck tingled when the scissors moved lower, and then her hand—her fingers—brushed lightly against the nape.

The faint sensation set him on edge. By now, her proximity alone was wreaking havoc, the whispers of her touch a distraction that left him half-mad with the effort to remain still.

When she finally dusted him off, picking up another towel and brushing the soft fabric over his neck and shoulders, Stan almost cursed aloud. Her touch, featherlight, laced with care, was far too gentle. Even her scent—clean and floral—drew him further from reason.

She reached diagonally past him, stretching just slightly to retrieve something on the far side of the table. Then it happened—her footing faltered. He saw it in the sway of her frame, the stagger of movement as she overreached, and his instincts kicked in without thought.

“Wendy,” he called, sharp and gravelly, catching her as she toppled.

The world tilted briefly—the soft curve of her body collided against his, her fall folding neatly into his lap.

His hands steadied her, one resting against the smooth line of her back, the other splayed instinctively across her waist. Her breath rushed out, warm across his neck, and the intimacy of the moment struck like lightning.

Neither spoke. Her face hovered close to his, startled eyes wide and soft lips parted slightly, as if she was too stunned to force words.

Stan swallowed thickly, every muscle winding tighter, harder.

The shape of her shoulder beneath his hand, her narrow waist, the rise of her chest as she inhaled—everything sharpened to her presence.

And in her gaze, he saw it too—that spark of realization, the same one he felt driving through his pulse like a drumbeat.

Her mouth twitched at the edge of a smile, but it was fleeting, her composure seemingly struggling to cement itself.

She stared at him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable but heavy—too heavy—with layers neither dared to voice aloud.

Then, as though sensing the precipice waiting in both their silences, Wendy shifted.

A faint tremor in her smile appeared as she scrambled to straighten herself, to stand and reclaim composure from where it had been left discarded between them.

But it never came back.

Stan’s hand cupped the curve of Wendy’s cheek, his thumb tracing a deliberate line across her skin. Her warmth seeped into him, grounding him even as his pulse quickened. The softness of her skin was mesmerizing, the smooth heat under his touch tying him to the moment.

So precious.

So perfect.

Even with his hand on her, he still thought she was too good—out of reach.

Every shallow breath she took brought her closer to him, her trust palpable in the way she tilted her head into his palm. She might as well have handed him the reins to her heartbeat.

But she remained still, watching him intently.

Then she tilted her head slightly to the side and put it trustingly in his hand.

He swallowed hard, his own heartbeat thundering in his chest as her gaze caught and held his.

Her eyes didn’t waver; they didn’t invite, they dared him—dared him to break the carefully maintained distance he’d sworn to keep.

She was temptation woven in silk, and he was too far gone to resist.

It was a gesture that spoke louder than a thousand words. She trusted him.

But she shouldn’t. It was unwise.

His thumb lingered on the corner of her mouth, brushing just enough to relish in the softness of her lower lip. Her lips parted on a silent gasp, both innocent and knowing, sending a jolt of heat straight through him.

“I’m no fairytale prince, Wendy.”

“I know. You’re better. You’re real.” And with this, her gaze fell to his mouth.

“Wendy…” he rasped. And then words failed him. What more was there besides Wendy? She was all he had on his mind, his priority—even more important than his life. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”

She closed her eyes and slightly parted her lips.

Her breath trembled, her chest rising and falling as if it took all her strength to stay as still as she was.

The space between them dissolved, every inch closer like an unraveling thread.

Their foreheads almost touched, and his breath mingled with hers, the intimacy of it raw and intoxicating.

She tipped her chin up, her lashes fluttering just before her eyes closed.

He couldn’t look away; she was beautiful in her quiet vulnerability, in her unguarded certainty.

“Please tell me to stop,” he whispered, his lips hovering just a breath away from hers.

His voice was thick, pleading, even as every fiber in his body screamed to close the distance.

But Wendy didn’t speak. She simply opened her eyes again—not wide, but enough to offer him a quiet, resolute answer before her lids drifted shut once more.

So, he kissed her. Slowly, reverently. Her mouth was soft, yielding, and the slightest pressure from her lips sent tremors coursing through him.

Time stretched, fragile, and crystalline as her fingertips brushed his jaw, hesitant and featherlight.

He deepened the kiss, coaxing rather than demanding, his palm still cradling her cheek as if afraid she’d slip away.

It was undoubtedly her first kiss and yet she knew what she wanted. And he was at her service. He’d take it as slowly as she wanted, or as fast as she wished, so long as he could be with her.

When her lips moved with his, her timid confidence blossoming, it undid him completely.

There was no one else in the world, no sound but the faint rustle of her skirts and their shared breaths.

Each touch of her lips was a discovery, each sigh a promise.

And for the first time in his life, Stan forgot every rule, every doubt—because there was only her.

*

Wendy’s breath hitched as Stan’s lips brushed hers, soft and unhurried.

Her pulse fluttered wildly, her heart thundering in her chest like an untamed thing.

This was her first kiss—her first real kiss.

This was something altogether different from a respectful kiss on her knuckles, something so overwhelming it left her trembling.

Her fingers, hesitant at first, touched his sleeve, the fine fabric beneath her hand a reminder of who he was—what he was.

A prince. And yet, here he was, kissing her, holding her as though she were the precious one.

The world around them blurred, fading into a quiet haze where nothing mattered but the taste of his lips, the strong yet gentle way his fingers cradled her face.

She had always wondered what a kiss would be like, but nothing had prepared her for this.

It was a cascade of sensations—his warmth, the faint scrape of stubble against her skin, the steady exhale of his breath mingling with hers.

It should have been too much. It should have left her overwhelmed.

Instead, it anchored her, made her cling to this moment as if it were the only thing tethering her to life.