Read Online Cursed by Nicole Camden - Free Book Online

actually, but no. Hold out your hand for me, please, pet.”
    â€œWhy are you calling me pet?” She did as he asked, holding out her hand for the shampoo.
    He looked surprised, and then he laughed. “It’s a term of endearment, though for tonight, I’d like it very much if you were my pet.”
    â€œHmmm . . . that sounds interesting,” Lille admitted, though she’d never been good at being submissive. Max was the only man she’d ever allowed to dominate her sexually. But since this was the last time she was going to have sex with him, she would make it count. The idea of giving over the reins to someone, just for tonight, sounded nice. She worked the shampoo into her hair and began scrubbing while he located a bar of soap and began washing her body. He took his time with it, making sure he washed away every last bit of sand. Max felt the need to take his time, considering what she’d said about this being their last night. He hoped that she’d change her mind, hoped that if he touched her deeply enough, she would forget about her fear, forget about not wanting to be in a relationship.
    â€œDoesn’t it?” he agreed, his eyes following his hands as he stroked her body. He thought of something his uncle had said once, regarding women: “Women are suckers for poems, even the ones that don’t like ’em.” He’d been forever quoting poetry, his uncle Bryan.
    â€œYou remind me of something. A poem,” Max ventured.
    Somehow, this was the last thing Lille had expected from him. “A poem?”
    â€œHmm, by Keats,” he said, and he began to recite:
    â€œI met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.”
    Lille felt a small tsunami rise and crash within her chest, choking her. He was talking about her. He’d picked a poem that described her. She’d never had anyone quote poetry to her, at least not poetry that didn’t mention her breasts or her lips or her smile. “I’d never have taken you for a man who quotes poetry,” she managed; her throat felt full and swollen, as if he’d taken her words as surely as he’d taken her body. “I don’t recognize it.”
    â€œâ€˜La Belle Dame sans Merci.’”
    â€œâ€˜The Lady Without Mercy’?” Lille felt strangely hurt, hurt and amused, because he was right, so right, to call her that, especially since she wasn’t going to sleep with him again after tonight. She wasn’t going to be in a relationship. It was too dangerous. She didn’t want him to see that, though. “How do you know it?”
    â€œMy uncle Bryan,” he confessed. “He quoted poetry to John and me when we helped him in the bar.”
    Lille’s lips twitched, thinking of battle-hardened John quoting poetry. She should have known Max had a poetic soul—look at his tattoos, at the songs he chose to sing in the bar and the way he sang them—but John didn’t seem as if he had a poetic bone in his body.
    Max helped her rinse her hair, then washed and rinsed himself quickly. Stepping out of the shower onto a blue rug, he located a towel for her and turned back to wrap her in it, tucking it around her so she wouldn’t get chilled.
    â€œWhy didn’t you got to college, then, become a professor of literature?” she asked, admiring his body as he dried himself, enjoying the curving line that ran from his hip and arrowed down happily to his magnificent package.
    â€œCollege?” He sounded surprised, as if the thought had never occurred to him.
    â€œYeah.” Lille gave him a half smile. “Why not go to college?”
    He rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel. “I had the bar to tend, didn’t I? And I can read without getting a fancy degree. Besides”—he dropped the towel and tugged on hers, pulling her