Page 42 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

W endy’s chamber was quiet save for their faint mingling of breaths and the soft rustle of moonlit shadows chasing each other along the walls.

Her old bed, small and intimate, bore the gentle echo of memories now being transformed into something entirely new.

Stan stood beside the bed, his gaze riveted on her as if she were a star fallen to earth, lighting the dim space with her very presence.

A nervous laugh caught in Wendy’s throat, but his eyes, dark and unwavering, stole the sound before it could escape.

He guided her gently backward, his hand warm and firm on her waist as he eased her onto the covers.

The care with which he cradled her head as her body met the mattress made her breath hitch—something about Stan’s touch was tender enough to make her ache in ways she could hardly put into words.

He hovered above her, a heartbeat of hesitation between them before he dipped his head and brushed his lips softly against her own. One kiss, then another, then another. Each one deeper, slower, unraveling her as if the air had been drawn from the room.

His hand skimmed up her cheek, tangling briefly in her hair before trailing down her throat, his lips following the path of his fingertips.

When he reached the base of her neck, his kisses slowed, lingered, and the seductive heat of his breath blossomed over her skin.

Stan shifted slightly, his solid chest pressing against hers as he murmured something low, something she couldn’t quite make out past the roaring in her ears.

With exquisite care, his hands found the buttons of her pelisse.

His fingers worked skillfully, though he took his time, each undone button exposing more of her skin to the cool air and his searching mouth.

His lips moved lower, kissing where her dress still covered her, his restraint evident but no less maddening.

“Stan…” she whispered, though whether it was plea or prayer, she couldn’t say.

His movements stilled briefly at the sound of his name, his eyes flicking up to hers.

She met his gaze, her heart hammering as an unspoken understanding passed between them.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he resumed his ministrations, peeling back the fabric as though unwrapping a treasure he’d been waiting his entire life to hold.

When his hands reached the delicate lace of her shift, just above the mounds of her breasts, he paused. His eyes, burning with unspoken devotion, locked with hers once more. Everything about him—his breath, his body—seemed to still as if waiting for permission he dared not ask.

Wendy’s own breath hitched as she lifted a hand, trembling slightly, to the back of his head. Her fingers threaded through the dark strands of his hair, and with a delicate but deliberate motion, she urged him downward.

The heat of his mouth bloomed through the fabric as he kissed her above her dress, reverently savoring the moment as his hands found the laces of her gown.

The ribbon yielded easily, the practical simplicity of her dress offering no resistance to Stan’s careful undoing.

The sensation of his fingers brushing against her bare skin as he unfastened the bodice was electric, sending tremors through her body that made her toes curl.

And that gave her a pang of courage.

She became brazen even—not because she’d forgotten the risks, but because for once, she chose herself.

Not to do the unspeakable but to take as much from him as he was willing to give.

When the last lace was undone, he paused, taking a deep, measured breath as the garment fell open, revealing her stays and corset under her sheer chemise.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough with something deeper than desire. His hands slid gently down her sides, and he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, and lower still.

Wendy’s breath caught as his hungry black eyes roamed over her, devouring her every curve like she was the only thing that could sate him. The heat of his gaze burned through her, leaving her trembling, her pulse pounding in time with his touch.

The first brush of his lips against her now-bare skin was fire.

Stan kissed her breasts with a tenderness that unraveled her entirely, his warm mouth exploring her curves as though committing them to memory.

When his lips closed over her nipple, Wendy arched into him, the sensation pulling a soft gasp from her lips she hadn’t meant to utter.

The sound seemed to unravel him. Stan groaned low in his throat, the reverberation of it against her skin heightening the exquisite sensitivity of her body.

His hands, strong and deliberate, cradled her hips as he continued his careful attentions, his mouth worshiping her chest with no doubt about the depth of his devotion to her.

She knew this couldn’t last. But she brushed any thoughts aside.

This was her moment to revel in her prince.

For now. Just tonight .

Because if she thought of what might come after—of what she might lose—she’d never let herself feel this.

Wendy’s hands found his shoulders, gripping tightly as he drove her further into the intoxicating haze of his touch.

For once, her mind was utterly blank, her world narrowing to the press of his lips, the sweep of his breath, and the steady, grounding presence of him above her.

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

Stan never rushed; each kiss, each touch carrying an almost excruciating patience that made her feel treasured, adored—a sensation so profound, it brought tears to her eyes as she lifted her head to meet his gaze once more.

His breeches remained on, but the hard press of his arousal against her hip made her acutely aware of just how much this restraint cost him.

Stan’s lips curved faintly as though he could hear her silent realization, and he kissed her once more, his tongue tracing slow, languid patterns against her skin before he drew back just enough to speak.

“You’re everything, Wendy,” he breathed, his voice husky and unsteady. “You’ll always be if you allow it.”

Her answer came not in words but in the way she reached for him, pulling him down to kiss him fiercely, her own walls crumbling completely in light of everything she couldn’t yet say.

And in the stillness of her old room, as the moonlight bathed them both, the rest of the world melted away.

*

Stan couldn’t believe how perfect she was.

It was almost impossible to separate the image of the fiery, brilliant nurse he knew with the impossibly soft, glowing woman lying beneath him now.

If she hadn’t saved his life, he would have never had a chance to experience her.

List had brought him pain, but he had also led him here. To her.

She was his calling. And she was his weakness.

He’d imagined this—oh, how he’d imagined it—on those endless hours spent watching her work in quiet fascination.

He’d dreamed of tugging at the white apron ties she wore so effortlessly, of pulling her flush against him and finally knowing the way her body fit to his.

But even in his wildest imaginings, what lay beneath those simple dresses was a level of beauty he could never have anticipated.

And now that he had her, he feared the cost. How long could he stay in London, keep her safe from the demands pressing in on all sides?

She was exquisite, soft, and radiant in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Each newly exposed inch of her skin stole the air from his lungs, her trust in him written in every curve, every fluttering breath.

And as much as he longed to claim her fully, greedily, this wasn’t about him.

Not now. This was about her—her pleasure, her discovery, her peak.

Her first time to trust him with this.

And if he knew one thing as a prince, it was not to disappoint people who put their faith in him.

Breaking their kiss, Stan stood smoothly, his knees brushing the side of the bed as he began to shrug off his coat.

The material slipped from his shoulders and landed in a heap at his feet.

His fingers found the buttons of his shirt next, undoing them deftly despite the tremor in his hands.

He tugged the shirt free and tossed it aside, exhaling deeply as the cool air met his skin.

His boots followed, kicked off with a haste that delayed none of his purpose.

But as much as he longed to shed everything, he stopped purposefully at his breeches.

They stayed on—for safety, for respect, for control.

He didn’t trust himself to take them off, not with her looking at him like that, her lips swollen from his kisses and her chest rising and falling with soft, shallow breaths.

She was everything he’d tried not to want—soft, good, and impossibly brave. And he worshipped her not just for her body, but for trusting him with it.

Wendy was everything he’d tried not to want—soft, good, impossibly brave. And the deeper he fell, the harder it would be to let go.

Despite the restraint he showed elsewhere, what flooded through him as he returned to the bed, lowering himself beside her, was anything but restrained.

“Wendy,” he murmured, the hoarseness in his voice making her eyes flutter open to meet his gaze. Her name was reverence, worship, a whispered prayer against the backdrop of the vulnerability between them.

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. The way her lips softened, the way her hand timidly reached for him, fingers brushing his jaw before slipping to his shoulder—it was answer enough.

His hands found her waist, sliding down and around with deliberate slowness, memorizing the curves he’d only dreamed of touching before. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her collarbone and lingering there.