Page 59 of Sweet Sinners
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.
Chapter twenty-seven
Connor
Screamturnsouttobe an easier watch for Cali, but for me? It’s torture.
Not because of the movie—because of her.
The entire evening has felt eerily like a date, a thought that should be horrifying. She’s my stepsister. She doesn’t look at me that way. She was just scared because of the horror flick I carelessly chose.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
Truth is, I wanted something on the screen that was more disturbing than the chaos brewing in my own head. Something to drown out the way she’s been haunting my thoughts—becausewhen she was in my lap, practically riding my thigh, her breath hot in my ear, her small whimpers filling the silence… I didn’t push her away.
I should have.
But now, as she shifts at the other end of the couch, I feel the loss like a phantom limb. Twice, she edges closer—once when Drew Barrymore meets her tragic end, and again when Ghostface reappears. Our knees brush, just a small touch, barely anything. But it stirs something deep, something that makes my fingers twitch with restraint.
That selfish, reckless part of me wants her back on top of me.
I want to see her like that again—cheeks flushed, pupils blown, looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded. Like she needs me. It’s the kind of reaction most people would shy away from, something reserved for the twisted or for those who’ve been swept up in too many dark romance novels.
But I’m not stupid.
Cali isn’t twisted. The fact that she’s keeping her distance now tells me she realizes we crossed a line. And yeah, it was wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten hard from her sitting in my lap like that—not that I could control it. It feels like a goddamn miracle that I restrained myself from kissing her when she looked at me with those wide, vulnerable eyes.
Or earlier, in the kitchen, when she held my gaze, hesitation flickering across her face like she wanted to step into me instead of away. Like she wanted me to shield her from the imagined threat of the movie’s serial killer.
But I can’t be that guy for her.
Even though it would be so easy to reach for her now. To shift just a little closer, to pull the popcorn bowl toward me and let our hands brush. To see what would happen if we let this thing between us tip over the edge.
Because I can tell—she feels it too.
If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have looked so damn shocked when she realized she was on my lap. She wouldn’t keep shifting toward me in small, unconscious movements, like she wants me to be her protector, her safe place.
I need to stop thinking like this.
I clear my throat. "Is this one better?"
She hums softly, reaching for more popcorn. "It has Matthew Lillard, so yeah, it’s better."
I smirk, inching just a little closer. A fraction of an inch, but enough. I’mdamnIcarus, drawn to the sun, knowing full well I’ll burn. I should keep my distance. Should play it safe.
But I don’t want safe.
