Page 15 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter twelve

Connor

I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.

Not now. Not ever. But especially not now.

She was just eating, tasting the food I made. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing deeper.

But fuck, it felt like everything.

Cali had no idea what she was doing to me. Sitting there, licking that goddamn spoon like she didn’t realize she was unraveling something in me I didn't even know existed. Like she wasn’t reminding me exactly how it felt to want something I couldn’t have.

The second that quiet, involuntary moan left her mouth, I knew I was screwed.

I gripped the counter so hard my knuckles burned white, forcing myself to hold back.

My pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out everything but her—the slow slide of her tongue over her lips, the absent way her fingertips brushed along the bowl’s edge.

Unguarded, for once. Vulnerable, in a way she probably didn’t even notice.

The spoon slipped from my hand, clattering loudly against the countertop, shattering the spell. She glanced up, those piercing blue eyes locking onto mine, and for a split second, it felt like she could see every secret I’d ever kept.

Then she went and said it, that teasing little comment about taking a picture, smug and taunting, her voice soft yet unmistakably provocative.

I should’ve brushed it off, thrown back some cocky reply, and walked away. But instead, words I never should have spoken slipped free, low and dangerous and full of promise.

Her breath caught. Barely audible, but I noticed. I noticed everything about her, the way her fingers tightened subtly around that damn spoon, the sudden tension in her shoulders. The way her guard slipped, just enough to betray that she felt this, too. Whatever this was.

I turned away, jaw tight, forcing myself to break whatever was building. To walk away from the reckless thoughts that had been whispering to me since the second I stepped back into this house.

Busying myself with the dishes, I scrubbed harder than necessary, the heat still humming beneath my skin, refusing to fade.

"This was…good," she finally said, quieter this time, almost tentative. "The food, I mean. Thank you."

I didn’t turn around, didn’t trust myself to look at her. “You're welcome.”

Silence hung heavy, lingering between us. She stood there longer than expected, as if she were waiting, for me to speak again, for me to turn around, to give her something more. But I couldn’t .

Then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that felt worse than I wanted to admit.

I exhaled sharply, my palms flat against the cold sink, my grip so fierce it hurt.

This can’t happen.

She hates me. She’s supposed to hate me. And I need her to hate me.

Because the alternative?

The alternative is dangerous.

I close my eyes, but all I see is her. The way her lips parted around that spoon. The way her tongue flicked out, slow, unhurried, completely fucking unaware of what it did to me.

I shake my head, trying to clear it, trying to focus on anything else. But it’s no use. Because I know, deep down, I’m already too far gone.

The cool night air does nothing to calm the fire raging under my skin.

Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, energy thrumming restlessly, demanding release.

I could go back inside, let an ice-cold shower shock some sense into me, but the thought of returning to that house—of being in the same space as her—makes something dark twist in my gut.

Instead, I head to the greenhouse.

As soon as I step inside, heat envelops me, thick and humid, a familiar weight pressing in.

The smell of rich earth and blooming roses settles deep into my lungs, grounding me.

It’s different from the sterile, suffocating walls of my cell, but the controlled space, the quiet—it echoes that same hollow feeling.

Maybe that’s why I keep coming back here, digging my hands into soil to remind myself I’m still alive. Still real.

Grabbing a spade, I shove it deep into the dirt, muscles flexing, tension rippling through me with every movement.

But it’s not enough. Not even close. My nerves still crackle, charged from earlier—from her.

From the way her lips parted around the spoon.

From the quiet, involuntary moan that tore out of her throat and hit me like a goddamn bullet.

My grip tightens on the spade. I slam it down again, harder.

Prison taught me control, taught me restraint. Because there wasn’t another option. The first weeks, I kept my head down, thinking silence would protect me. But silence doesn’t make you invisible. It makes you a target. A victim.

I still remember my first fight. The way knuckles cracked against my ribs, the taste of blood filling my mouth. Instinct took over, adrenaline surging until I was hitting back, harder, faster, wilder—because in there, violence wasn’t just survival. It was currency. Reputation.

And once I tasted it, I never stopped.

I learned to strike first, to swing before someone else could put me down. Some were looking for a fight; others, they had something to prove. So did I. So I proved it, over and over again, until fighting was second nature, woven deep into my bones.

When the verdict came back not guilty, it didn’t even matter. I was already trapped. Already tainted by the blood on my hands and the scars on my knuckles. One last fight made sure of that.

I dig harder now, soil flying, desperate to bury memories along with the dirt. Sweat drips down my spine, shoulders burning from exertion. Good. The pain is grounding. It’s real, tangible, pulling me from the edge .

But even as my body screams, my mind drags me back to Cali.

Her voice, sharp and unyielding. The loose strands of strawberry blonde hair falling free from her ponytail, glowing under the dim kitchen light.

The challenge in her piercing blue eyes, her stubborn chin lifted defiantly.

Even exhausted, she was effortlessly beautiful. Untouchable.

She’s in my fucking head, and I don’t know how to get her out.

With a rough breath, I toss the spade aside, bracing my hands on my knees, forcing myself to breathe through the chaos.

It’s been years since someone got under my skin like this—since someone crawled inside and shook the foundation of the giant fortress I buried whatever was left of my hear in.

But Cali? She’s there, tearing down every barrier I have, brick by brick.

Wiping sweat from my forehead, I straighten, inhaling sharply. I need to get a fucking grip. This—whatever this twisted attraction is—can’t happen. She already thinks I’m dangerous, already watches me like she’s waiting for me to prove every damn assumption she’s ever made.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe she should stay far away from me.

Before I do something we both regret.