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third finger. “Three, we got this Cherry chickie.”
    “Shit.” Hanson sighed. “Let’s go back to Marla Banks’s house and get this over with.”

Chapter 7
    I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
    —A NAIS N IN
     
     
     
     
    C herry couldn’t stop crying. It was humiliating, being out of control like this.
    “Cherry, baby, look at me,” Paul said. “Please, just look at me.”
    She lifted her head from the pillow and blinked at him. She could only imagine how awful she looked, all red-eyed and snot-nosed . . .
    “It’s okay, baby-girl,” he said, rubbing her back. “It’s really okay.”
    “You m-m-ust be so disappointed in me,” she croaked, burrowing into the pillow again. “I’m s-so sorry . . .”
    She had come to Paul looking for comfort, for the only thing that ever made the wheels in her head stop turning. Sex kept her completely, utterly in the moment. No future, no past. Just that single moment.
    “No, baby, no!” He pulled her to him. “I mean, I am disappointed that I got the room for nothing, but it’s okay—”
    “I really, really wanted to.” She wiped her nose on the corner of the pillowcase. “I want so much to enjoy it again, all of it—”
    She hadn’t been sure she was ready; in fact, just the idea of someone touching her made her feel a little queasy. But she was getting desperate. She had hoped, if not for pleasure, then just for a cathartic release of stress that might let her sleep. For a connection to some other person. For reassurance that Kerberos hadn’t ruined her completely.
    She trusted Paul, she really did. But the first tiny swat of his hand on her ass—hardly more than a pat, really—set panic galloping through her body. She couldn’t breathe.
    Next thing she knew, she was curled up in a fetal position, wailing like a crazy woman.
    She could hardly stand for him to touch her now. All she wanted was to get her clothes on and get out of this crappy little hotel room.
    “Please forgive me, sir,” she murmured, getting up.
    Paul sighed and stretched out on the bed, his cock still semi-rigid.
    “I told you it’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”
    Suddenly she wanted to throw something at him. He wasn’t mad at her ? Then why was he whining about the wasted expense of the room?
    She was mad at Paul, mad at herself, but especially mad at him . He had ruined everything. It had been hard enough getting her own head around the things she wanted, but now she was confused again. She felt guilty and ashamed.
    She grabbed her bra from the floor, looking around for the rest of her clothes. Where were her panties, damn it?
    He was flipping through static on the television mounted on the wall. Suddenly, the sounds of moans and sweaty flesh slapping together filled the room.
    “Want a cookie?” He held out an Oreo without tearing his eyes from the screen.
    She shook her head. She gave up looking for the panties and simply stepped into her jeans.
    “Come on, baby-girl,” Paul coaxed. “The sugar will do you good. Have a few cookies, a soda . . . and maybe a little blow job—”
    “I don’t want a fuckin’ cookie,” she snapped, pulling on her blouse. “And I don’t want to blow you, either.”
    Paul blinked at her, still chewing.
    “Hey, I just thought it might be less stressful for you, help you loosen up,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cookies. “Jesus, Cherry! I can’t help if I still have a hard-on—”
    She grabbed her bag and opened the door.
    He was already dialing the phone before the door slammed behind her.
    “Robyn, baby-girl?” he said into the phone. “Today is your lucky day.”
     
    What was it about rope, Robyn thought, that even the loose slip of it over her bare skin made her nipples hard?
    Even as a kid, she’d liked being tied up. When