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woman’s head was tilted backward, lips parted, face contorted in the throes of ecstasy.
    Emma felt the air leave her lungs in a sharp exhale, hot all over and more turned on than she’d been in weeks, maybe months, imagining the press of ropes against her skin. She’d never wanted this before, never even thought about it. Staring at that picture, though, she wanted to be that woman, held helpless and bound at the mercy of her partner. Her eyes slid down the page, taking in the same couple in a variety of positions, the man always thrusting deep inside her or fingering her or, for one photo, with his mouth between her legs.
    Emma slammed the laptop screen closed so hard she might have damaged it. The noise made two people nearby look up from their work, eyes curious, wondering what had so upset the red-faced woman in the corner. Emma finished her scone in two bites and downed the rest of her mocha. Putting her laptop back in the bag was difficult with her hands trembling so much, and fuck, she needed to get back to her apartment rightthisveryminute and get her hands on herself.

Chapter 5

    W hen Brent finally rolled in to Sulli’s bar, Ian was halfway through a glass of Sam Adams, and the bartender was just setting a plate of mozzarella sticks in front of him.
    â€œOh, mozzarella sticks. Fuck yeah.” Brent slid onto his bar stool and grabbed a cheese stick off Ian’s plate, then gestured to the bartender that he’d take the same drink as Ian. “Sorry I’m late.”
    â€œYou’re always late.” Ian took a cheese stick of his own. “Don’t you own a watch?”
    â€œIt’s the T. The Green Line fucking stopped at every single crossing.” Brent shifted on his stool and took a bite of the mozzarella stick, breathing openmouthed when he realized it was piping hot. How this man kept a wife with manners like that, Ian would never know. To make matters worse, Brent began to talk without closing his mouth all the way, trying to cool off the cheese. The resulting garble was unintelligible.
    â€œChew first, dude.”
    The bartender slid Brent’s beer over, and he took a gulp to cool his mouth before trying to speak again. “I said, what’s with the sudden ‘Hey, Brent, let’s go out for drinks right now’ call? You want to talk about your feelings?”
    â€œFuck you.” Ian smiled into his beer. “I need a sounding board.”
    Brent shrugged. “All right.” For all his questionable table manners, Ian knew his longtime friend was a good listener. Maybe that was why Missy had married him. And he wasn’t an unattractive guy; yeah, his hair was a little shaggy, but he had a stocky wrestler’s build that made him look like he could fuck anyone up if he wanted to, and girls had always seemed to like him, even in high school, when they were both geeky.
    Ian swirled the beer in his glass, watching the foam cling to the inside rim and then slide down in long filmy sheets. “So, you remember Emma Green?”
    Brent’s face was blank as he filed back through his past. Ian knew it wouldn’t take him long; Brent’s memory was impeccable, Mensa-caliber, probably. That quality could be infuriating in their friendship, since Ian could never win an argument that relied on facts or figures; but it also was comforting to know that whenever he couldn’t remember the name of the actor in the movie they were watching, or which T stop was closest to their destination, Brent would. “Emma Green from high school? Sure. You said she runs that bookstore right off Beacon Street.”
    â€œPrologue. Right.” Ian scratched the day’s growth of light brown stubble on his chin and jaw. He never shaved on weekends. “Anyway, I went over to her apartment yesterday.”
    â€œOh. You dating her?” Brent examined his beer glass. “Sam Adams says these glasses are shaped special to release the aroma