As I nod, the room does a little spin and shifts off-kilter, like an awkward toddler ballerina. Something in my mind warns me to slow down, but I ignore it and head to the dance floor with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Average.

The back corner of the basement is cast in shadows and the booming music makes my ears ache, but alcohol buzzes through my blood and dancing feels good.

I relax into my movements, lose myself in the bass and the crowd. Time falls away as I lose more and more of my inhibitions with the help of the alcohol.

The guy works his hands up my shirt, and I don’t even care. Maybe I should. But I came here looking for Sam, and I’m disappointed. I want to prove I’m mature enough to come to a party like this and have a good time, so I let the guy touch my stomach, let him slide his fingers farther north.

Just as his hand closes over my breast, he’s yanked off me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Sam.

As if someone jumped on the accelerator to my heart, my pulse speeds into high gear. I bite back a smile at the aggravation in his voice, stupidly happy he’s jealous.

Too late, I realize his angry words aren’t intended for the guy feeling me up. They’re intended for me.

“Is she yours?” my dancing partner asks.

I scowl. “Are you kidding me? I don’t belong to anyone.”

“She’s not mine,” Sam says. “She’s seventeen.”

The guy’s eyes go wide and he throws up his hands and backs away, muttering something about jailbait.

Sam made me a pariah at this party. Fantastic.

I spin on Sam. “What was that?”

He arches a brow. “You smell like a liquor bottle. How much have you had to drink?”

“I didn’t come here looking for a new daddy, so stop trying to protect me.”

“Someone needs to,” he mutters. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

I push past him. The crowd swallows me as I work my way to the other side of the basement, straight to the bar. The girls have vacated the smooth wooden surface, and now it’s as if waiting for me.

“Want some help up?” A blond guy grins at me, as if seeing me dance on the bar would make his night.

“Yes, please.” I give him my hand and flash a look over my shoulder to make sure Sam isn’t here to boss me around and tell everyone I’m a child.

The second I climb on the bar, I’m hyperaware of my short skirt. Guys gather beneath me, no doubt to a great view of my purple silk panties, but I make the best of it and dance to the music, running my hands over my stomach and hips as I find the beat.

There are catcalls, and part of me likes it—the attention, feeling important, even if it was for something as trivial as my body. When you feel stupid all the time, it’s nice to be appreciated for something. Anything. It doesn’t take long for another girl to climb up to join me. We dance together, much to the delight of the guys watching.

“Body shots!” one of the guys in the crowd calls. Then others join in to an increasingly insistent chant of, “Bo-dy shots! Bo-dy shots!”

The next thing I know, the girl shoves a shot glass in her cleavage. “Be gentle,” she croons so the guys in the crowd can hear.

I know what they want—what they expect—and before I can think too much, I duck my head and wrap my lips around the glass. The guys howl their approval, and I come up with it slowly, shooting it back without the help of my hands.

“My turn!” the girl says, lifting another shot in the air. She turns to the crowd. “Where should she put it?”

“Between her legs!” someone answers. A chair is hoisted next to me on the bar. It doesn’t quite fit, and I have to balance it on three legs as I position the shot between my thighs.

As quickly as I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into, I remember Sam saying someone needs to watch out for me, and I pull my skirt a little higher.

My partner in crime giggles as she lowers onto her knees. “I’m not really into girls,” she whispers, “but you are pretty hot.”

Then she licks my inner thigh, and it shocks me so much that I lose my balance. Both the chair and I fall off the bar and into the crowd. Someone catches me, but I hit several people and drinks on my way down. It seems like there’s beer everywhere, including streaming down my shirt and covering my legs. Gasping at the cold, I pull the wet fabric of my shirt off my skin.

“Shit,” someone says. “Are you hurt?”

Turning toward the voice, I find myself looking into the face of Sam Bradshaw, his eyes on my soaking wet shirt. “I’m okay.”

“You’re covered in beer.” His gaze roams over me one more time before he lifts it to my face. “You really are rowdy, you know that?”

Even though I’m covered in goose bumps, his closeness makes me feel warm. I probably smell worse than I look, but I have Sam’s attention. Finally.

He grabs my hand and pulls me away from the guy who caught me. “Come on, Rowdy. Let’s get you out of here.” His smile’s so gentle, so comforting, I want to curl into it. Then he walks away and I have to think really hard to remember that I’m supposed to be following him.

I let him lead the way up the stairs, my eyes on his back the whole time.

He opens a door on the landing and nods inside. “In here.”

My drunken heart skitters and stumbles at the sound of his voice and the idea of following him into his room. I follow him inside and close the door.