Page 29 of Take It Offline

Honestly, I don’t know what I am.

What the hell happened? Last I checked—and I’d never admit to googling her, but I absolutely have—the Conways were still considered part of the upper class. So what’s Emma doing slumming it in a studio with more scuffs than a monster truck?

As I take in the forest green couch, the espresso machine crowding the kitchen counter, the cotton candy sweater she wears on Fridays hanging over the back of a chair, it’s clear. This isn’t a prank.

Andfuck, maybe I’ve been wrong about her.

“You actually live here.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Her eyes go ice cold. “Yes, I do. Now that you’ve seen it, you can go back and laugh about it with your golfing buddies. I’m sure all the people at work who have called me a princess will enjoy creating a new nickname.”

No one would ever accuse me of having tact, but in this moment, my mouth definitely loses the plot.

“Did you run away from home? Mom and Dad cut you off or something? Or is this another part of your community outreach?”

“You know what, Charlie? Fuck you.” Emma’s on me before I can blink, both hands gripping my shirt and pushing. Shematches me, step for step, so close I could count every lash. Her eyes spark in surprise when my back hits the wall and our chests touch, our breaths tangling together. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Be careful what you wish for.

And like the beggar and thief I’ve always been, I slide my hand around her neck and pull her the rest of the way, stealing the kiss that’s been driving me to distraction since I met her.

It’s filthy and deep. A battle of teeth and tongue and every bit of brimstone I’ve seen let loose.

If this is burning, then I’ll cross hot coals to get to her. Beg her to incinerate me and thank her for the pleasure.

God, she tastes better than I imagined she would.

Emma kisses the same way she works—with passion and determination. It’s devastating. The brutal way she attacks my mouth, her tongue battling mine, makes my blood sing.

Fuck, no one’s consumed me like this before.

The world exists as nothing except the hungry sweep of her tongue, her vicious grip on my neck. Our teeth clash, and I’m greedy for more, pushing my thigh between hers, leaning in with my whole body. When she gasps and rocks against me, I suck on her bottom lip with a growl.

She’s better than any dessert, hot and sweet and already so fucking addicting.

No ice bath on earth could be cold enough to replicate how it feels when Emma steps back, her eyes wide again with shock.

“This is wrong,” she says, her voice shaky. “You should go.”

Fuck. Leave it to me to make everything so much worse.

So that’s that. She’ll never be able to see past what I did or who I am. Good to know.

CHAPTER 12

MY WAY, OR THE CONWAYS

EMMA

Aquick internet search will tell you the facts. Abigail Conway (née Seymour) launched Conway Connects when she was just twenty-two years old. What started as a collective of a dozen accessory designers quickly grew into a luxury group best known for cultivating niche small goods.

The key was exclusivity. Nothing was franchised. Releases were limited in number, and every piece was handmade and astronomically priced.

Nana called it “hyper luxury.” By her fortieth birthday, she’d sold the company for one hundred million dollars and promptly retired.

On the face of it, her journey was impressive, yet simple enough. The entirety of it was barely enough of a story to take up my daily commute to work, let alone the weekly trek to my parents’ house.

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