Page 31 of Sweet Sinners

I force in a slow, steady breath, then another, and finally, my body starts to register that the movie is over. That there’s no real threat here, only the lingering pulse of fear still drumming through my veins.

And suddenly, the exhaustion crashes into me.

I slump against Connor, my face pressing into the warmth of his shoulder, my body limp, drained.

"That was a terrible choice of movie," I mutter into his shirt.

"Cali," he says, his voice low, careful.

"You’re officially banned from picking movies," I cut in, my tone half-playful, half-miserable. "That wasn’t deep or psychological. That was just plain horrifying. I’m definitely going to have nightmares. "

I keep my face buried against him, not caring how ridiculous I probably look right now.

Horror movies have never been my thing.

It’s not about the gore, the cheap jump scares, or the ridiculous plots—it’s the loss of control. The way fear sneaks in, takes over, makes me feel like I can’t breathe, like I’m five years old again, standing in the doorway of a too-quiet house, waiting for someone to tell me everything’s okay.

I can keep my emotions in check during a chick flick. I can roll my eyes at over-the-top romance. But fear?

Fear still has a hold on me.

Dr. Anderson always said it makes sense—losing both my parents the way I did, the trauma of it all. I should probably reach out, schedule a session, unpack all of this before it spirals.

But that scares me too.

And I hate feeling scared.

It’s why I avoid horror movies in the first place.

And now, getting this worked up over something as trivial as a movie—falling apart in front of Connor of all people—just makes me feel foolish. Embarrassed.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t pull away.

"You're tough, Cali. Strong-willed. Decisive." Connor’s voice is steady, coaxing, like he's trying to pull me back from the edge of something. "If this were real, you would've taken control way before it got to that point."

His attempt to reassure me should work, should be enough to shake off the last lingering shreds of unease from the movie, but his voice is too low, too careful. It sends a different kind of shiver through me .

"Horror movies are supposed to be a thrill," he continues, lighter now, like he's trying to steer us into safer waters. "A safe scare from the comfort of your couch. How about we switch it up? Something with a little more humor this time?"

I exhale, forcing a nod. But when I shift, I realize something.

I'm straddling one of Connor’s legs.

And he's hard.

The second the realization slams into me, it's over. My entire body goes rigid, my breath locking in my throat. I should move. Should scramble off him before this moment twists into something worse, something impossible to take back.

But I don’t.

Because the pressure against my thigh, the friction as I adjust slightly, is just enough to make heat coil low in my stomach.

I press my lips together, fighting the moan that wants to slip free, but Connor’s already caught it. His gaze darkens, his jaw tightens, and his breathing slows like he’s reigning himself in.

"Off, Calliope," he orders, voice rough, low.

My stomach clenches. I’ve pissed him off.

Shame rushes through me so fast it burns.

My hands tremble as I move, careful, deliberate, sliding off his lap as if I haven’t just made a massive mistake.

My legs are unsteady when I stand, my shirt slipping too far down my shoulder.

I yank it up, clear my throat, and mumble, "I’ll get more beers. "

The beer in my hand isn’t even finished, but I need an excuse. A reason to move, to breathe, to be anywhere else where his scent—musk and spice, sharp and intoxicating—doesn’t fill my lungs.

Connor just nods. "Yeah."

I turn too quickly, almost tripping in my rush to escape. But I can’t help it—I glance back. Just for a second. Just to confirm .

But Connor is already on his feet, his back to me, shoulders tense, hands clenched into fists like he’s barely holding himself together.

I bite my lip, pulse hammering, torn between the heat still lingering in my body and the realization that I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m doing.

Is he pissed or turned on?

Does it even matter?

He's my stepbrother. He's on house arrest. And if I’d just given Dean a chance, I wouldn’t be in this mess—flustered, restless, tangled up in whatever this is. I’d be out on a date somewhere nice, in some incredible place, eating incredible food…

But it wouldn’t taste as good as the meals Connor makes.

And that realization guts me.

What if I were gone all weekend, lost in another man’s company? Would Connor even blink? Would it matter to him at all?

The thought makes something dark twist low in my stomach.

This… all this confusion swirling in my head—it has to be just lust. A reaction. An impulse.

No. That’s a lie.

Because I know myself. And I don’t just lust after people. It takes more than a good face and a decent body to get under my skin, and right now, I am both hot and fucking bothered. It’s not just the adrenaline from the movie, not just some dry spell of attention.

It’s him.

Connor. The one guy I shouldn’t want. The man I can’t escape.

I inhale sharply, my shoulders tense as I reach for the fridge.

Opening it slowly, carefully, I grab the last four beers.

My hands are shaking, my nerves too raw, my mind too loud.

I bite my lip, scanning the kitchen like I expect someone to pop out and catch me in the middle of my own damn thoughts .

"Hey."

Connor’s voice slices through the quiet, making me jolt.

My head snaps up, eyes locking onto his.

For a second, relief floods through me—he spoke instead of creeping up silently. But then, that same reckless, yearning part of me whispers, What if he had?

What if he had just pulled me into his arms, pressed his hands against the tension in my back, drawn me close, buried his fingers in my hair—

No.

I shake the thought off, lifting the beers slightly like a shield. "I got the beer," I announce, forcing normalcy into my voice.

Connor nods once. "This one will be easier on you, I promise. It's a classic."

Classic.

Like that means anything right now. Like it’s enough to pull me out of the mess in my head.

I scoff under my breath, still too wound up, still too embarrassed. "Classic doesn’t necessarily mean better."

His lips twitch, but his eyes stay steady on mine. "Trust me," he says, voice firm but coaxing. "You'll like it."

Trust him.

The one thing everyone has warned me against. The thing I’ve been conditioned to question when it comes to Connor.

And yet… it feels like the lesser of two evils compared to everything else I’m thinking right now.

Connor steps closer, the air tightening between us. His voice dips lower, softer, drawing me back in.

"Cali."

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry .

"Do you trust me?"

Everything stops. The world narrows.

The weight of that question presses against my ribs, crushing, demanding, undeniable.

"Yes," I whisper. And God help me, I mean it.