Page 61 of The Sound of Seduction
And in the stillness of her old room, as the moonlight bathed them both, the rest of the world melted away.
*
Stan couldn’t believehow 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 experienceher.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.
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 lipsfound 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.
