Page 43 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

The rustle of the sheets created a quiet song beneath them as they tried to remain as silent as possible—a reminder that they weren’t entirely alone in the house.

Even as her hands found their way to his hair, gripping softly, and her body instinctively arched toward him, that knowledge lingered in the back of his mind.

He didn’t resist it. Instead, the fear of being overheard, the necessity of holding back—the secrecy—only made it all the more intoxicating.

When his lips trailed lower, skimming the delicate column of her throat with featherlight kisses, her fingers tightened instinctively in his hair.

Stan couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at his lips against her skin.

She was holding back, too—doing her best to stay quiet even as her body betrayed her.

He kissed a trail downward, following the soft curve of her chest now barely covered by her loosened bodice.

When his lips found the barest edge of fabric, his restraint grew taut.

Instead of urging the material away immediately, he kissed the line where her skin met cloth, teasing her with the knowledge of what was to come.

She whimpered softly, the sound escaping in a breathless gust, and his body tightened in response.

Every nerve in him was screaming for more, begging to shed that last scrap of modesty that stood between them.

But instead of yielding to that primal urge, he drew on every ounce of self-control he possessed.

“Patience,” he whispered, though whether he said it for her or for himself, he couldn’t say.

The word hung between them, electric and unspoken, and she sat up a little so that he could slowly peeled the remaining fabric away.

When her skin was bare beneath him, he paused, eyes roaming over her with an unhidden awe. His breath caught. He hadn’t prepared for this—not truly. She was so beautiful it ached. But as his eyes met hers, something shifted.

She looked at him, and suddenly it wasn’t about him anymore.

*

Wendy couldn’t think. Every touch was a distraction, every kiss an invitation to abandon the logic she clung to. She shifted slightly under his gaze, but when her eyes met his, there was no mistaking her trust, her longing for him.

Her thoughts spun: the deeper she fell for him, the harder it would be to choose. And yet, what choice did she have? Nick. Cloverdale. The practice. Her life in London wasn’t negotiable. But her heart—her heart didn’t know that.

“Perfect,” he breathed. The word broke from him like a revelation, his fingertips trailing reverently down her sides as though relearning what he had yet to touch.

His lips resumed their path, dipping to the sensitive swell of her belly, where soft sighs escaped her lips in time with his kisses.

She twirled her fingers through his hair, as if she wanted to guide him on his path down.

Lower—slower still—his lips dipped, each touch deliberate and gentle, igniting her skin in a way—he thought—she hadn’t known before.

Stan steadied himself, his hands firm at Wendy’s hips as she moved beneath him, her body completely abandoning the restraint she seemed to fight to hold onto.

The way her fingers clung to his shoulders, pressing almost desperately into the hard muscle there, sent a torrent of sensation coursing through him.

There was something primal, raw, and fierce in the way she held onto him—like he was her anchor.

But all Wendy could think was: how long did they have? Would he be sent away? Would duty call him back to fight List, to protect his country, to fulfill some prince’s obligation she’d never be able to follow?

Her reactions were mesmerizing, drawing him into a trance he couldn’t escape and wouldn’t want to, even if he could.

Her body trembled and writhed in his hands, the smooth curve of her back arching toward him like a supplicant drawn to something divine.

The sound of her breath, shallow and uneven, filled the quiet room, each little gasp and whimper like a spark igniting the wildfire that burned within him.

Every shift, every quiver, was a revelation—a language without words in which he was becoming fluent, one whispered sigh at a time.

“I didn’t know…” she whispered.

“That it feels like this?”

“That my body could do this.” She closed her eyes and let him continue.

He felt the heat of her body beneath his palms, the delicate tremble of her thighs against his shoulders.

The tension in her muscles thrummed against his fingertips as if she teetered on the very edge of something impossible.

But what undid him most was the audible evidence of her restraint—the small, ragged breaths that didn’t quite become moans, each one bitten back in an effort to remain silent.

They couldn’t be caught; he knew it as well as she did.

But the secrecy of it all, the fragility of this stolen moment, only heightened the intensity.

He paused, his breath warm against her, and the sound of her gasp—soft but nearly broken—washed over him.

He couldn’t drag his eyes away from her, couldn’t stop himself from memorizing the way her hips lifted instinctively toward him, chasing whatever he gave her without hesitation.

She was fire incarnate beneath his hands, molten and honest, her body moving with a rhythm that sang only of need.

The sight of her—bare and unguarded there in the moonlight—was more than he could have prepared for.

When he lowered his mouth again, the silken warmth of her folds spoiled him, ruined him entirely.

He moved deliberately, each touch of his tongue as calculated as it was reverent, knowing exactly how to draw those trembling, feather-like gasps from her lips.

Her taste, the softness of her skin pressing against his mouth—it was everything he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be consumed, seized by the enormity of their intimacy, by the quiet sounds she made, so much louder in their stolen silence.

Her thighs pressed closer around him in helpless reaction, her body shifting as though it had a mind of its own, surrendering to the inevitable.

He felt her fingers in his hair, the way they dug in, as though desperate to keep him there.

He tilted his head slightly, the faint graze of his stubble brushing against her vulnerable skin, and the way her body trembled in response sent a jolt of something unbearably sweet and wild straight through him.

That soft, breathless whisper of his name—“Stan…”—rose from her lips, and it was all he could do not to lose himself entirely.

He didn’t need her to say anything more than that, didn’t need any other affirmation but those two syllables trembling in the air between them.

It carried everything—her trust, her longing, her belief that he was exactly who she needed at that moment.

For a moment, he lifted his eyes. Tasting her, he licked his lips, and she lifted her head.

This was a meeting of minds, hearts, and soul. Her eyes were black, her mouth parted, and her chest rising and falling with needy gasps.

He answered not with words but with action as he dipped back down.

His hands steadied her hips, anchoring her as her body threatened to arch beyond his grasp.

His movements remained steady, slow, maddeningly precise, drawing from her the kind of whimpers and half-sounds that would be loud enough to awaken the entire house if she didn’t fight to contain them.

But oh, how glorious her restraint made it—the way she burned under his deliberate touch yet refused to break.

He marveled at her, utterly entranced by her strength, her vulnerability, her beauty.

What if this moment—this breathtaking, trembling now—was all they would ever have? What if he left? What if this, right here, was her only memory of him?

“Tell me what you like,” he spoke against her folds.

“I don’t know,” she cried, ashamed of her inexperience but too overcome to hide it.

Every brush of his fingers unraveled what little composure she had left, and still she feared what surrender might cost her.

What if this moment—this breathtaking, trembling now—was all they would ever have?

What if, in a few day, Stan was gone and everything between them was reduced to a memory too dangerous to revisit?

Her body cried yes even as her heart begged her not to fall further.

“This?” Stan teased her pearl with his index finger.

“Deeper.” Her voice came forced.

And so, he inserted one finger.

“More!” she cried.

He inserted another. She arched into his hand, and he nearly lost himself when he felt her warm and wet tightness twitching against his hand with need.

“Stan!” Her breaths quickened, shallow and sharp, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts that made an unshakable satisfaction settle deep within him.

“Here, my love,” he said, his voice raw with reverence, inserting a third finger and settling his thumb over her pearl.

He came back to face her, and she grabbed his head, pressing her mouth against his.

Their kiss was deep and open, swallowing her cries in the darkness of the night.

The fire building within her was unmistakable, vibrating against him like the hum of something alive and untamed.

He felt her inching toward release, the tension in her body coiling impossibly tight.

Yet still, he refused to rush; he refused to do anything but savor her every subtle shift and shake.

She moved involuntarily, her head tossing to the side, her hands tangling in the sheets beneath her, searching for something, anything, to hold onto.

To him, she was devastating—utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

The soft, restrained cries she fought to contain filled the room like the most beautiful symphony.

He had memorized so many details about her before this, but he committed this, this sacred moment, to memory with the reverence only a man who knew he’d been forever changed could feel.

Their world narrowed to this single, shattering connection.

Every glance, every touch, every whispered breath spoke volumes, weaving an unspoken trust and devotion that eclipsed the need for words.

Wendy’s eyes caught his, luminous with vulnerability and wonder, and in that exchange, Stan felt the earth shift.

She was a constellation of light and fire in his arms, and he, a man who had never quite believed in redemption, found himself humbled, worshipful, and utterly hers.

Her trembling hand rose, brushing against his cheek as if memorizing the lines of his face in the twilight. “Stan,” she mouthed, her voice breaking as if it carried her. It wasn’t a cry of surrender—it was a claim. He was hers now, whether she dared believe it or not.

He caught her fingers, pressed his lips to her palm, and closed his eyes as if to preserve the memory forever.

This wasn’t merely the height of pleasure; it was something infinite, unyielding, a release tempered by awe.

Their barriers, fears, and pasts seemed to dissolve in that tender collision of hearts and spirits.

Whatever they had been before mattered little; together, they were something new, something extraordinary, something unbreakable.

It left him raw. The need to remain quiet, the tense secrecy of it all, made this moment burn brighter, sharper, and more unforgettable.

His name on her lips, the tremble in her hands, the way she trusted and gave herself to him—it was everything.

This was theirs alone, a fragile and precious thing born of whispered secrets and moonlit surrender.

And as he moved in deliberate, steady reverence, Stan knew he would carry this moment, this connection, with him for the rest of his life.