The room spun, colors bleeding together, faces morphing into caricatures.
Some guy had worked his hand under my shirt. The owner of the hand was behind me, no longer dancing so much as rubbing his hard stubby cock on my ass. Each thrust through our clothes sent another wave of nausea up my throat.
I didn't like his touch.
It made me feel claimed, but not by someone who had earned the right.
Instead he made me feel cheap and dirty.
I pushed away from him, my boots catching on a sticky patch of floor.
He was immediately replaced by another frat boy, this one pressing his body to my front, putting his hand in my hair and tilting my head back so he could whisper in my ear, his teeth grazing my earlobe.
"Why don't you be my good girl and come upstairs with me.”
What the fuck?
“Whaa? Huh? Sorry, no, I—" I stammered, tongue thick in my mouth, words slurring at the edges.
His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling strands from my scalp. My skin crawled, goose bumps racing up my arms despite the heat.
I pushed him away from me and stumbled off the dance floor, my ankle twisting as one heel sank into a gap between floorboards.
Amy was nowhere to be found, and all the other girls that I had been dancing with were paired off, making out with guys, pressed against the wall or on the couch. Lipstick smeared across chins, hands disappeared under clothing.
They looked happy enough, and good for them.
But it wasn't what I wanted.
"Come on baby, don't be like that, we can just talk upstairs," the frat boy who couldn't take a hint cooed, his hand circling my wrist, squeezing tight enough to make my fingers tingle.
Suddenly the music wasn't euphoric, it was too loud, too much.
The bass pounded in my skull, cracking against my temples.
The world spun around me, and I couldn't seem to keep my balance.
I had to press myself against a wall and hold on so I didn't fall, the rough texture of the drywall scraping my palms.
I didn't think I drank that much; nothing tasted strong.
My heart raced. Air refused to enter my lungs.
This was wrong, this was all so wrong.
Why did I fight so hard for control and then give it up?
This was chaos, and it was terrifying.
For a single, treacherous moment, I wondered what Artem would do if he saw me like this.
Would those steel eyes flash with rage?
Would his hands break the bones of the men touching me?
The thought evaporated as quickly as it formed, replaced by burning shame.
I didn't need Artem or any man to rescue me.
