Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 114: Taken (ii)

June – POV

People were around us. Some dancing, some watching, some just too drunk to notice. But we weren’t invisible.

And that made it hotter.

Justin’s hands slid beneath my skirt, fingers resting on the curve of my ass, no longer trying to stop me. Just... feeling. Like he needed the contact or he’d lose his mind. I rocked forward again, harder this time, dragging a sharp hiss from him.

"You’re gonna pay for this," he muttered.

I grinned.

"Promise?"

His hands flexed, his hips twitching under me—desperate to thrust up, but he didn’t. He knew the game now. He had to sit still while I moved. And I made it slow torture.

The beat changed—slower, heavier. I matched it, my rhythm syncing with the music. I leaned back, arching just enough that he could see the deep V of my blouse, see the swell of my breasts bouncing softly with every movement.

His eyes snapped down.

I rotated my hips again—deliberate, sensual, wicked.

Justin looked like he was in pain. His cock was hard under me, twitching beneath the rough denim, straining. I ground down harder, dragging a broken sound from his throat.

"June—fuck—stop."

I didn’t.

Instead, I shifted forward until our foreheads touched, our lips a breath apart. "What’s wrong?" I purred. "Can’t take it?"

He exhaled sharply, his hands digging into my thighs now, like anchors. "You’re evil."

I kissed the corner of his mouth.

"No. I’m vengeful."

Another grind, slower than the last.

"Next time you steal my panties and fuck me against a door, maybe you’ll remember I bite back."

He chuckled darkly. "You like it when I take control."

"Mm. I like a lot of things," I murmured, tongue grazing his bottom lip.

His hands slipped under my blouse, fingertips teasing the curve of my waist. I felt his control starting to snap. And I loved it.

"You keep this up," he warned, voice low and hot, "I’m going to flip you over this table and take you in front of everyone."

My core clenched around nothing. I bit my lip, breath catching.

"And you’ll moan for me," he added, lips brushing mine, "like the shameless little mess you are."

I was seconds away from doing exactly that.

But I didn’t want to give in yet. No. I wanted to drive him crazy. Push until he cracked.

I leaned back again, eyes still locked with his, and rolled my hips one last time—hard. I felt the sharp jolt of pleasure shoot through both of us.

Justin exhaled like he’d just lost a war.

Then he snapped.

His hand wrapped around my throat—gentle but firm—and pulled me closer. "Get your ass off my lap," he growled, "or I will make good on that threat."

I blinked slowly, daring. "I thought you liked me here."

"I do. Too much. And you’re about five seconds from getting fucked on this couch."

My whole body trembled at the threat.

"Then maybe," I whispered, brushing his ear with my lips, "you should do it." freeωebnovēl.c૦m

His grip tightened for just a second.

"June—"

I kissed him, slow and deep, then pulled back just enough to whisper:

"Game on."

Justin kissed me like he was fucking my damn mouth.

No mercy. Just raw possession. His tongue claiming me, his teeth catching my bottom lip like he wanted to bruise it. His hand gripped my jaw, holding me in place as his mouth devoured mine—and I let him, moaning into it like I needed it to breathe.

He pulled back only enough to growl against my lips, voice low, dark, and so goddamn filthy it made my toes curl.

"You’re lucky I don’t want anyone else seeing you when I fuck you," he rasped, breath hot against my cheek. "Or I’d take you. Right here. Right now."

I whimpered. Actually whimpered. Because the way he said it—low and possessive, with that wicked little snarl in his throat—had my whole body lighting up again. I was already soaked. Already trembling from teasing him. And he knew it.

His hand slid higher inside my blouse, fingers curling around my breast again like he owned it—like he dared anyone to look. Then he pinched my nipple, hard enough to make me gasp and arch into him.

"And when we get home..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I’m gonna fuck you till you can’t walk for days."

My entire core clenched at that promise. My hips stuttered on their next roll over his lap, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I was still grinding on him, still riding that thick bulge between his legs in slow, devastating circles, turning this lap dance into pure torture—for both of us.

He leaned in again and bit my earlobe—sharp and deliberate—right as his fingers twisted my nipple again.

"Fuck," I hissed, shivering.

He was making it so hard to keep up the game. My body was already humming, aching, desperate. And just as things were peaking—his cock thick and pulsing under me, my thighs slick, breath coming in gasps—I kept grinding, kept circling my hips like I was made of fire and spite.

The music pulsed around us, bass shaking the floors, people dancing, laughing, shouting—but I couldn’t hear any of it. I was on him. His. Every muscle in his body was taut under my hands, his self-control fraying with every second I kept moving on him like that.

"June," he warned again, jaw locked, voice strained.

I grinned through my heat-drunk haze. "What?"

"You’re playing with fire."

I leaned in, my lips brushing his, hips rolling again as I whispered, "Good. Burn me."

And that was it.

I felt it—his grip tightening on my waist, the sharp hiss of breath through his teeth, the way his cock jerked beneath me like it wanted out.

His control? Gone.

And I wasn’t done yet.

Just when I thought this was it—that maybe, finally, he’d snap completely... that he’d unzip his pants, slide inside me right here, or toss me over his shoulder and drag me off to some dark corner to finish what he started—

Buzz.

I froze.

That deep, obnoxious hum vibrated right under me.

Oh my God. His phone.

I could feel it—buzzing from his pocket, right beneath where I was grinding like a damn heat-drunk maniac. The timing? Criminal.

Justin cursed, jaw clenching. His hand slid between us and yanked the phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the screen—eyes flashing with something between rage and regret—then cursed again, even harder this time.

"No, no, no," I whispered, watching his whole posture shift. "Don’t you dare—"

But he was already moving.

He gripped my waist, lifted me off his lap like I weighed nothing, and placed me gently on the seat beside him. My legs wobbled the moment I sat, like my thighs had forgotten how to exist without him pressed between them.

"I’m sorry, love," he said, brushing my hair behind my ear. "But I have to take this. Be good. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back real quick."

And then he was gone—disappearing into the crowd to find some quiet place to pick the phone, leaving me breathless, flustered, soaked, and very, very unsatisfied.

Just. Great.

I let out a sigh, flopping back into the couch, my pulse still pounding in my ears. My body still hummed, my thighs pressed tight together like that would somehow replace the pressure I’d just lost.

I sat there, blinking at the dance floor, still in the aftershocks of being thoroughly wrecked and then abandoned—and I swear the club lights looked brighter now, like they were mocking me.

And then, not even a full two minutes later, a waiter in all black approached, a tray balanced effortlessly in his hand.

"Excuse me, miss?" he said, giving me a quick once-over.

I raised a brow. "Yes?"

"The gentleman you were with... he asked me to bring you this."

He lowered the tray and handed me a martini glass. I stared at the crystal-clear liquid inside—definitely not a tequila shot. No fruity sugar bomb. Just clean, crisp, and calculated.

Water.

Of course.

I rolled my eyes, lips twitching in reluctant amusement. Typical Justin. Always two steps ahead. Always anticipating my next move—even when he was the one who left me dripping and panting like a goddamn mess on a leather couch.

"Trying to sober me up while he runs off to play business daddy," I muttered under my breath, taking the glass anyway.

I sipped it.

Cool. Refreshing. Infuriating.

Still not him.

I crossed my legs tightly, squirming in my seat, my core still throbbing with unsatisfied need, my skin still burning from his touch, and now I was supposed to just... wait?

Fine. I’d wait.

But he better know he’d pay for that interruption later.

With interest.

I sat there, legs still crossed, sipping the water he’d supposedly sent. My heart was still beating too fast, my body still humming from the mess he left me in. But I tried to focus—watching the dance floor, the people writhing under flashing lights, bodies too close, too drunk, too lost in the beat to care.

That’s when I felt it.

A wave. Like static rolling under my skin. First, a slight wobble in my vision. Then a dull weight behind my eyes. My limbs felt too warm. My mouth too dry. I blinked. Once. Twice.

The music suddenly felt... distant.

Like I was underwater.

My brows furrowed as a slow, sluggish thought tried to claw its way forward.

Something wasn’t right.

My eyelids were getting heavy. Too heavy. My pulse no longer wild with arousal—it was slowing. Flattening.

And that’s when it hit me.

Fuck.

I was drugged.

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