Page 33 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter twenty-eight

Cali

I almost wish it were Monday.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but as I lie here, staring at the ceiling, the idea of facing the day—and potentially Connor—makes me crave the distraction of work. Anything to keep me busy. Anything to avoid the awkwardness that might be lingering after last night.

We got through Scream just fine. I stayed in my own space, no jumping into his lap, no startled yelps.

But that was because I wasn’t really watching.

The movie was darkly humorous, clever in its twists, and I appreciated that.

Yet, I was so wrapped up in keeping my emotions in check that I barely absorbed any of it.

I was there, but not present. Too caught up in the battle raging inside me to focus on the bloodshed happening on-screen.

You don’t want him. You’re just confused. You don’t want him. You’re just tangled up in your own feelings.

But it doesn’t feel like confusion. Not when every interaction leaves a mark, not when his voice is the first thing I hear in my head when I wake up.

Connor and I have never been real siblings in the conventional sense.

We didn’t grow up together. We only met in high school, and even then, we barely spoke—just two people forced to share the same dinner table, him sulking, me retreating into silence.

Life pulled me in different directions, kept me too busy to notice him.

Then college happened, and he ended up in prison.

We never had a chance to know each other. Never had time to be anything other than distant.

So is it really so wrong to feel this way now?

Yeah, sure, a taunting voice sneers in my head. March into work and tell Dean you’re not into him because you’re too busy wanting your stepbrother. That’ll go over well.

Despite our parents being gone—dead, vanished from this world—everyone still sees us through that lens. That’s the story spun in the news, the image burned into people’s minds. And the truth? The truth doesn’t stand a chance against perception.

People wouldn’t care about the nuance, the distance, the years apart.

They’d just call us something ugly.

Groaning, I cover my face with my hands.

I’m still wet from last night.

Just riding his thigh, feeling him hard against me, had me on the edge, ready to lose control—and yet, I behaved. I didn’t grind against him, didn’t maneuver us into a compromising situation… but God, I wanted to.

As twisted as it sounds, I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted his hand to slide higher, his grip to tighten, to pull me against him until I had no choice but to move. I wanted to feel his breath against my lips, wanted him to push past every last barrier I should be keeping between us.

I groan again, rolling onto my stomach, my thighs clenching involuntarily. My hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts, past the edge of my underwear.

A sharp inhale.

I'm already soaked, slick and aching for something I shouldn’t want. But that’s the worst part—the wanting. The craving. The fact that I do want him, that I haven’t stopped thinking about how it would feel to have his hands on me, how it would feel if he—

Shit.

My fingers circle lazily at first, teasing myself, dragging out the anticipation, the forbidden edge of this making every touch hotter, sharper. My other hand grips the pillow as I bite down, muffling the small, desperate noises slipping past my lips.

Connor.

The name hums in my brain like an electric charge, the memory of his voice, his hands, the heat of him pressed against me feeding the fire building in my stomach.

Faster now. Deeper. My breath stutters as I thrust my fingers inside, rolling my hips in time with the movement. My thighs tighten, heat rushing to my skin, and I press my feet into the mattress, chasing it, needing it.

“Oh, God,” I pant, arching, my body strung tight as the tension snaps. The pleasure crashes over me in violent waves, my muscles trembling with the force of it. My mouth opens on a silent cry, and then—nothing. Just the slow, pulsing aftershocks of the best orgasm I’ve had in too long.

Too long since what? Since anyone else?

The thought barely forms before I shove it away.

I blink up at the ceiling, my heartbeat hammering in my ears, my body still humming in the aftermath. Swallowing hard, I drag my fingers from between my thighs and wipe them absently on my shorts, shaking my head at myself.

Get a fucking grip, Cali.

Then—

A knock.

My breath catches.

“Cali?” Connor’s voice. “Breakfast.”

Fuck.

My stomach clenches as I bolt upright, yanking the blanket over my hips like it’s some kind of shield.

Had he heard me?

No. No.

But the idea of it alone makes panic crawl up my spine. If he had —if he knew —if he even suspected what I’d just been thinking about—

I shove a hand through my hair, grab the first clothes I see, and force myself to my feet. When I open the door, Connor is mid-turn, like he was just about to give up and leave.

His gaze collides with mine.

And then—

His eyes drop.

His jaw tenses.

I follow his gaze and realize— shit —my tank top has slipped down, exposing way too much skin.

His eyes flick back up, fast. His ears are red .

I yank my top up, clearing my throat, trying to recover. “I’ll, um—shower first. Then I’ll be down.”

Connor just nods, his movements stiff as he turns to leave.

He doesn’t look back.

Instead of calling after him, instead of asking if he heard anything—if he knows—I rush straight to the shower. What I need is space, a reset, a cold shower. Anything to cool the heat clawing beneath my skin.

But no amount of freezing water will change what I know deep down.

There’s absolutely no way I can let on how much I want him. No way I can allow anything to happen between us.

Still, that doesn’t stop me from taking a little extra care with my appearance.

I run my fingers through my damp, strawberry blonde hair, fluffing it for volume. A little brown eyeliner, just enough to make my blue eyes pop. A coat of mascara, soft but noticeable. It’s subtle—barely an effort at all.

Not that I think he’ll notice.

Not that I care if he does .

I tug at the hem of my crop top, then down on my shorts, attempting to cover more of my legs, but it’s pointless. The house is hot despite the A/C, and I live in shorts. It’s comfortable. It’s normal.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Swiping some ChapStick over my lips, I force myself to head downstairs.

Connor is already in the kitchen, standing over what looks like enough bacon and eggs to feed a full table of people. The smell is warm and familiar, and for a moment, it almost feels like a real home, a real morning, a real moment where everything is normal .

And I tell myself— he didn’t hear anything .

I repeat it in my head until I almost believe it.

“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice casual as I walk in.

His shoulders stiffen at the sound of me. He clears his throat, not looking up.

“Yeah. Plenty of food,” he mutters.

I arch a brow, stepping closer. “Are you expecting an army?”

He shrugs, flipping a strip of bacon. “Habit, I guess.”

Then, just for a second— a fraction of a second —his face tightens. His hand moves to his lower back, his fingers pressing into the muscle like it aches.

Concern flares.

I close the distance before I think better of it. “Connor? Your back okay?”

He drops his hand like I caught him in something. “Yeah, it’s fine, Cali.”

"Are you…" I start, but the words die in my throat.

I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask, only that I have to say something—anything—to break this suffocating silence between us.

Connor stands still, his back rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, but his hands… his hands clench at his sides, fingers twitching like he’s gripping onto something invisible just to keep himself from unraveling.

It’s the way he won’t look at me that makes my stomach knot.

I tell myself it’s nothing—that maybe he got hurt working in the garden or pushing too hard in his makeshift gym. That it’s something minor, something that isn’t sitting heavy on his chest, keeping his shoulders drawn tight like he’s holding weight there.

But I know better .

I feel it.

And then, he exhales. Long and slow, like he’s releasing something. Letting go.

He reaches for the hem of his shirt.

And hesitates.

I wait, my pulse a dull throb in my ears, my breath held hostage between my ribs.

"Did you get hurt?" I ask softly, trying to pull him back from wherever his mind is, trying to get him to give me something. Anything. I want his pain. I want to know what it is, how deep it runs.

I can’t take it away, but maybe—maybe—I can make it better.

Finally, he pulls his shirt up.

And my stomach drops.

Four scars. Brutal. Jagged. Raised and uneven, like someone took a blade to him slowly , like they wanted him to feel it, to suffer through every second of it.

My breath catches, horror tightening my throat.

I step closer without thinking. My hands tremble, but I reach out anyway, because I have to.

My fingers skim over the worst one, following its rough, uneven edges, tracing it like I can somehow rewrite the pain it left behind.

Connor flinches. Barely. Just a flicker of tension in his shoulders. But I feel it.

And still—he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t move.

I press my palm over the scars, covering them, shielding them from the air, like I can protect him now in a way no one did before.

Like I can take away even a fraction of what he suffered.

"You never deserved this," I whisper, my voice breaking.

Any hope of keeping my distance is long gone.