Page 55 of Sweet Sinners
I snort. "I’m not scared. It’s just a movie."
"Sure," he says, unconvinced, eyes glinting with amusement.
I try to focus on the screen, but it’s no use. The suspense builds, the tension thickens, and before I know it, I’m inching closer, every kill making me more on edge.
Then—jump scare.
I yelp, grabbing onto his arm without thinking, my face burying into his shoulder.
"Connor!"
His body shakes with laughter as I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing myself.
"It’s just a movie, Cali," he teases, throwing my own words back at me. His smirk tells me he’s thoroughly enjoying this.
And as much as I want to be annoyed, I don’t let go.
I mutter under my breath, forcing myself to keep watching the movie, but something distracts me—a slow, deliberate pressure on my thigh. A tickling sensation that has nothing to do with fear.
I tell myself not to look, to stay focused on the screen as the tension builds, as the music swells, but I can’t. Not when my skin is burning beneath his touch, not when I’m suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between us.
Then, just as the killer emerges from behind a door, I jump, my fingers digging into Connor’s arm on instinct.
The pressure on my thigh intensifies.
I glance down. His hand is there, warm and firm, his thumb stroking over my skin in slow, absentminded circles. But his eyes—his eyes are still locked on the TV, like he hasn’t even noticed. Like this touch is casual, normal.
Like this isn’t completely throwing me off balance.
It should be harmless. We’re just sitting here. Watching a movie. That’s all this is.
Except—I’m practically draped over him now. One thigh slung over his hip, my arms wound around his like I’m trying to mold myself to him, my head resting on his shoulder like I belong there.
We’re too close.
Too much.
But then, a scream rips through the speakers, and all rational thought flies out the window. I flinch, pressing closer, clinging to him like his presence alone could shield me from whatever horrors the screen throws at me next.
"Connor," I whine, my voice shaking, equal parts fear and frustration. "I wanted depth!"
He chuckles, the sound low and amused, vibrating against my cheek. "We’re more than halfway through," he promises, his voice warm, coaxing. "You’ll make it. Squeeze as hard as you need to."
I’m already squeezing, clutching onto him like he’s my last tether to sanity. Another victim meets their end in the dumbest way possible, and my frustration bubbles over. I should've gone for a damn romantic comedy.
"Why aren’t the police there yet?" I hiss, watching the screen through narrowed eyes. "Why do they always trap themselves?"
Connor turns to me, a lazy half-smile playing at his lips. "Fear makes you lose all sense of logic. But what about you? What would you do if you realized a killer was inside?"
I hesitate, shifting against him. "No chance of that here—not with our security. Plus, I actually lock my doors," I grumble, deflecting.
"Okay, but forget all that. What’s your move?" he presses. "Do you run outside, try to make it to the road, hope for help? Or do you hide?"
I shiver. Not from the movie, but from something else—something in his voice, in the way he’s looking at me, like my answer matters.
"I don’t like that question," I admit, barely above a whisper.
He nods, like he gets it, like he knows the answer I won’t say out loud.
