Page 12 of Bound in Possession

"You're terrified," he states, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I am a Caruso. We are not terrified of anything. Especially not an oversized metal tube."

"Is that why you've stopped breathing?" He leans in closer, his heavy masculine scent suddenly filling my space, overriding the sterile smell of the cabin. "Look at me, Camilla."

"I would rather look at literally anything else," I snap, but my eyes automatically lock onto his. The plane hitches as it gains speed, and I let out a sharp gasp, my fingers digging deeper into the armrest.

"Focus on me," he commands, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic growl that makes my core hum. "Tell me about the dress. Do you like it?"

His question is a bit surprising, but it works.

"It's... it's fine," I stammer, my heart hammering against my ribs, though I am no longer sure if it is from the takeoff or his proximity. "Though your methods of acquisition are highly questionable."

"I have people for that," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes. The plane tilts upward, lifting off the ground, but Maksim doesn't move an inch. He stays anchored right in front of me, his intense, unwavering stare holding me captive.

“Tell me what else you want. When we land in New York, I'll have it waiting."

"My freedom would be a stellar start," I breathe out.

The terrifying sensation of leaving the ground fades as the aircraft levels out into a smooth ascent, but the panic in my chest doesn't subside. Instead, it morphs into something entirely different. The fear drains away, replaced by a thick, suffocating wave of heat. Our breaths are practically mingling in the small space between the seats, and the sheer defiance in my eyes suddenly feels a lot like invitation.

“Freedom from what?" Maksim asks, his tone entirely level. "I’m not aware you’re a captive.”

I let out a sharp, incredulous breath. “What do you call this then?”

“What?” he asks, his icy gray-blue eyes boring straight into mine. “Have I hurt you?”

“Well, no. I’m⁠—”

He raises a single hand, the quiet gesture instantly shutting me up. “Have I taken advantage of you?”

“No. I⁠—”

His hand remains raised, halting my protest before it can even leave my lips. “Have I forced myself on you?”

“No," I say, lifting my chin to glare at him, refusing to let him dictate the entire narrative. "But don't think I don't know that doesn't make you any different from the rest of them. You’re just like the next man. You want to have sex with me.”

“Have sex with you? No.” He frowns, the line of his jaw hardening. He leans even closer, his presence utterly overwhelming. “I want to fuck you. I also want to make love to you. I want to work your body and make you scream my name like I’m your god.”

The sheer, unadulterated raw honesty of his words goes straight to my core, and a white-hot wave of heat blooms deep in my stomach. My breath catches in my throat. I cannot seriously like this. Why would he speak to me this way? What on earth is happening to me?

“You jerk," I whisper, my voice trembling with a potent mix of anger and sudden, terrifying desire. "Why would you⁠—”

“You know why I won’t?” he asks, cutting me off softly. “Because I’m not going to force you. You’re mine already. You belong to me now, and I can be a very patient man, Camilla. When I do touch you, it will be because you begged me for it. Because you cried for release.”

“Beg you? Cry for release? In your dreams,” I spit at him. “And how dare you speak to me like that?”

A slow, devastating smile touches his lips, and his gaze deliberately falls to my chest, where the thin fabric of the dress fails to hide how my nipples are already poking out from the intense friction of his words.

My face heats, a furious blush rushing to my cheeks. Needing to escape the suffocating pull of his gravity, I rise to my feet and storm over to the empty chair directly across the aisle. I drop into the leather seat, turning away to present my back to him.

I stare blindly out the window at the passing clouds, struggling to steady my ragged breath, my mind entirely spinning. I am a lady, raised in high society to see right through men like him—so why am I utterly confused by my own reaction?

For the remaining hours of the flight, I ensure he receives nothing but the frozen expanse of my shoulder. I ignore him completely, staring at the cabin walls or pretending to sleep, refusing to grant him another single word or glance.

Eventually, the private jet touches down on American soil, and we are swept away in another convoy of tinted, heavily armored vehicles. We drive out of the city and into a secluded, high-end estate.

The vehicle slows as it approaches a set of towering, wrought-iron security gates flanked by high stone walls and armed guards. Once cleared, we glide down an impossibly long, winding driveway lined with ancient, overarching trees that filter the afternoon sun.