Page 39 of Sweet Sinners
I exhale slowly, fingers tracing restlessly along the edges of the book. "I can't figure out who to trust," I admit. "It feels dangerous to be wrong right now. Like one misstep could cost me everything. I keep feeling like an imposter like any day now they're going to realize I don't belong. I mean, managing a department would've been a stretch. But CEO?" My voice tightens, frustration seeping in. "It's a joke."
I roll my shoulders, grimacing at the sharp ache that’s lodged there. "And why the hell do my shoulders hurt this bad?"
Connor tilts his head slightly, studying the spot where I carry all my tension. "You're holding all your stress there," he says simply. Then, as if it's obvious, he jerks his head toward the door. "Come on."
I eye him warily. "I don't want a massage."
He smirks, eyes dancing as he deadpans, "Relax, Cali. They weren't exactly teaching therapeutic massage in prison."
I hesitate, but curiosity wins out, and before I can second-guess myself, I push off the bench and follow him. He guides me through the quiet house, stopping at a door I haven’t bothered opening since I came back. It used to be just storage—forgotten, neglected. But stepping inside now, I see it’s become something entirely different.
Weights line one wall, a squat rack in the corner. A punching bag hangs heavily from the ceiling, and the faint scent of rubber mats and lingering sweat wraps around me like an embrace. The space feels real. Raw. The opposite of the pristine, suffocating elegance that clings to the rest of the house.
“This is what you’ve been up to?” I ask, taking in every carefully placed detail.
Connor shrugs lightly, glancing around. “Needed something that felt normal,” he admits quietly. “Most of this stuff was here already—just gathering dust. Figured it was time to put it to use.”
My gaze catches on an octagonal device mounted on the wall, and Connor moves to it, flipping a switch. Soft lights pulse to life, casting the pads in a rhythmic glow. He tosses me a pair of gloves, eyes sharp and challenging.
“Put these on,” he says, his voice low, authoritative. I slip my hands into them, fumbling slightly, and he closes the distance between us. He takes hold of my wrist gently, guiding each glove into place, tightening them securely. His fingertips linger on my skin longer than necessary, tracing slowly down my wrists. My pulse quickens, warmth flooding through me.
He lifts his eyes to mine, dark and intense. “Relax your shoulders,” he murmurs, stepping behind me. His chest brushes my back, warmth radiating off him as his hands land on my hips, guiding me firmly into position. “Stand here. Shift your weight forward. Keep your fists up.”
I suck in a breath, feeling hyper-aware of every inch of contact, of how perfectly his fingers mold to my sides, how effortlessly he controls my movements.
“I don’t really know how to do this,” I whisper, suddenly self-conscious.
Connor’s breath warms my neck, his voice dropping deeper, soothing but edged with something dangerous. “Trust me, Cali.”
I nod slightly, leaning into him as he steadies me. “Think of the lights as all those assholes who’ve made your life hell this week,” he says softly, guiding my fists up in front of me. “Put everything you’ve got behind each punch.”
He steps back just enough to give me room, but I can still feel him there, solid, grounding. The music thrums through the speakers, and at his encouraging murmur, I throw my first punch. Awkward, hesitant.
Connor steps close again, his hands sliding down my arms, aligning my body with his. He holds me like a shield, molding his strength against my back, his arms enveloping me.
“Like this,” he whispers against my ear, his breath sending a shiver down my spine as he moves with me, his body teaching mine the rhythm. “Don’t hold back. Let yourself go.”
He calls out directions softly. “Right,” and our fists land together. “Left,” his strength becoming mine. Each punch gets harder, each strike clearer, until I move without needing his cues. My breathing grows ragged, muscles burning, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.
I lose myself in it, inhim. The tension drains from me with every hit, every ache replaced by a new, fierce energy. Finally, I lower my arms, breathless, chest heaving. Connor releases me slowly, his fingers trailing down my arms, leaving a heated path behind.
I turn to face him, sweat dampening my brow, but a smirk tugging at my lips. “Your turn,” I challenge.
He switches the track to something heavier, a rhythm that slams through the speakers, raw and unrelenting. It pulses like a heartbeat, adrenaline bleeding into every corner of the room. Connor doesn’t reach for gloves. He just turns to the octagon and lets loose, fists striking the pads like thunder.
Every hit lands brutally hard, precise, angry. Each punch holds something deeper, something volatile I can’t quite name. Sweat beads on his forehead, his breathing rough, every movement a release of pent-up fury. His expression darkens, eyes burning with intensity, like he's fighting something beyond the pads—something buried far deeper than I realized.
“Connor,” I say carefully, sensing him slipping further away, disappearing into that familiar darkness. My stomach twists; I recognize that look, I've worn it myself. Anxiety that steals your breath, memories that drown you until nothing feels real. “Hey, stop,” I try again, louder, but he doesn’t hear me.
Instinctively, my hand moves, reaching for him before my brain catches up, fingers wrapping gently around his bicep. He’s pure muscle, heat seeping into my palm, the tension beneath his skin vibrating against my fingertips. He freezes instantly, body going still as stone, eyes snapping toward me.
Time seems to stall, stretching taut between us. There’s only Connor and me, locked in this single moment, the air thickening, charged like it could ignite at the smallest spark.
My hand falls away slowly, reluctantly. My throat tightens, and I scramble for something—anything—to break the silence. “Careful,” I manage softly. “I’m not sure I could convince a doctor to make house calls forbusted knuckles.”
His gaze drops momentarily to the anklet on his leg, something dark flickering through his expression before he masks it with a bitter smirk. “Yeah,” he murmurs roughly, flexing his bruised hand. “Pretty sure they wouldn’t give me special privileges for being reckless.”
I swallow, shifting my weight awkwardly, then look up into his eyes. “Thanks,” I say quietly, genuinely. “For showing me all of this. It…helps.”
