Page 24 of Sweet Sinners
Connor
Ishouldn’tbethinkingabouther 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. Whateverthiswas.
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 Ineedher 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 keepcoming 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.
