Page 57 of Sweet Sinners

"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.