All Chapters of BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

POV: Clara The bottom-heavy bass amp thumped against the floorboards of the off-campus house, rattling the plastic cups left strewn across the amplifier as Justin’s bandmates stowed their cords, the drummer carefully unmounting his crash cymbal with loud, punishing metallic clinks that reverberated throughout the cramped basement. Justin lounged comfortably on the frayed arm of the sagging leather sofa near the soundboard, tossing a black guitar pick lazily into the air and catching between his two fingers repeatedly as his dark eyes locked onto my face. "You nailed that counter-melody on the third chorus," Justin said, giving me an easy, self-assured grin as he nodded towards me, sending a shiver down my spine. "Dave was losing his mind about how tight the harmony sounded on the second run through, and he usually hates everything we attempt to write." "Thanks," I replied, unsnapping the acoustic guitar from around my neck and settling it gently on its floor stand, preoccupied

POV: Clara The words lingered in the heavy, warm air, echoing in the wooden dining room as Carter loomed over me, his hulking frame motionless as he waited for me to speak, his piercing blue eyes devouring each and every detail of my pale face that wasn’t covered by the frilly gray sweater I wore. I stared at my hands, watching them shake uncontrollably as I fought to inhale a lungful of air, the silence in the fraternity house thick enough to hear the clock ticking in the hallway before my world exploded inwards. The burden of this secret had been with me for three long years, festering in the deepest chambers of my chest, cloaked behind sarcasm and biting remarks as I hid from the world, because every single time I attempted to explain the events of that fateful night in Arizona, my tongue would tie itself into knots, and I would end up choking myself on my own words in an effort to pretend that it was just heartburn from working double shifts at the coffee lounge and mopping

POV:CLARA My hand clutched Carter’s, my fingers digging in so hard my knuckles were white. I couldn’t stop shaking—my arm sent all the loose macroeconomics papers shivering across the desk. Carter didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, looming over the desk with his icy blue stare locked right on me, his chest rising and falling, steady as ever. “Clara,” he said, and there was this deep, rough edge to his voice that rumbled through his hand and right into mine. “You’re asking me to step into something that might push you past your limit, and hurting you’s the last thing on my mind.” I shook my head, wiping at my cheek with my thumb even as it ran across his warm skin. “I’m not asking for you to hurt me. I need your help, Carter. I need you to help me control it.” My voice was tiny and shaky. “Every time a guy even comes close, my brain just... loses it before I know what’s happening. But you’re the only one here who actually knows what went down.” He looked at our hands for a fe

Chapter 97 POV: Clara His lips were on mine, and the world didn't become a darkened cavern, with Marcus Drake hovering over me on a sordid mattress. My hands were gripping the fabric of his shirt, digging their nails into the softness of his shoulders as his mouth hovered over mine with an almost pious tenderness that made the nerves in my body scream to life with a feeling so foreign and wonderful to my senses. He didn't thrust himself into me roughly, or use his weight to pin me down. He didn't even attempt to maneuver beneath my jeans, as if there was a clock ticking in his ears that needed to be stopped. His large hand slipped beneath my gray sweater, his hand massaging the bare skin of my hip as he let out a languid breath over my parted lips. A gush of warmth surged right through the middle of my torso, sending shivers all over my body, but instead of freezing up and becoming an unfeeling block of ice, my body leaned further into his caress. I pulled him closer,

Clara POV I had ignored Carter Graham for eleven hours, which was a decent amount of time for a woman who had cried all over his shirt, and he had sent me nine texts, each more carefully casual than the last. Did you eat? Your pen is still in my room. Okay, I can see that you've read these. I turned my phone face-down on the practice room piano, where I had been hiding since nine that morning and where the only sound I allowed myself was the soft, ugly noise of someone trying to sing through a lump in her throat, and I reminded myself of the facts: my body had done something it had not been able to do for three years and I had thanked the person who happened to be in the room, which was a natural thing to do and in no way proof of anything else. Allie found me at noon with her phone held out in front of her like a casserole that had gone bad, and the screen showed a photograph of me leaving the hockey house at dawn with my shoes in my hand and my hair in a state that could