Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 37: Getting Naughty

JUNE POV:

Okay, so... yesterday Justin was all broody and moody like the world was ending. But today?

Today he was all small touches, low murmurs, and full-blown bad boyfriend energy.

We ended up late to business class because he dragged me behind the bleachers and kissed me senseless. Then—God help me—he finger-fucked me to hell and back. Thank the heavens I was wearing a flared dress. That dress saved me.

Or maybe doomed me. Depends how you look at it.

Good Lord, does he know how to use his fingers. That sexy, gravel-edged voice of his kept whispering things like "Don’t make too much noise, baby," but then he’d do something that made it impossible to keep quiet. Like he was daring me to fail.

He’d pulled me aside when people were still hurrying to get to class—he didn’t even ask, just took my hand and guided me behind the stands. And I didn’t resist.

Anything to take me out of my haunted head for a while.

Then he turned around, slammed his lips onto mine—and that was it. Game over.

His hands were everywhere. Squeezing, folding, grabbing—breasts, hips, ass—like he couldn’t get enough. Like he needed to feel all of me at once.

And then... the dress.

He pulled it up like it was a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap, and the moment his fingers found my wet heat, I was gone.

Completely.

Utterly.

Hopelessly.

Then the thrusts started.

Slow at first. Deep. Measured. And then harder. Faster.

And I—God—I couldn’t stay quiet.

Not with the way he was touching me.

Not with the way he knew me.

By the time it was over, I was panting against his chest, legs trembling, throat sore from trying—and failing—to be quiet.

He pressed one last kiss to my neck. Lazy. Possessive. Like he’d just claimed me.

And maybe he had.

He didn’t say anything as he straightened my dress, smoothed my hair, and tugged me out from behind the bleachers like nothing had happened. Like we were just another couple, slightly late for class.

But me?

I wasn’t okay.

My legs still felt like jelly, my skin still tingled from every place he touched, and my heart... God, my heart was doing that stupid thing again. That fluttery, traitorous thing like it hadn’t learned a damn lesson.

Because here’s the thing—he wasn’t supposed to touch me like that.

Not like he cared.

Not like I was anything real to him.

We’re supposed to be pretending, right?

Fake dating. For show. For survival. For whatever-the-hell reason we told ourselves when this whole thing started.

But nothing about that moment felt fake. Not his voice. Not his hands. Not the way he looked at me after, like he saw something he didn’t expect.

And I hated it.

Because it felt too good. Too safe. Too much like something I could crave if I let myself.

So, I did what I always do when things start to crack.

I laughed.

I said something sarcastic. Brushed it off like it was no big deal. Acted like I wasn’t about to fall apart from how alive he made me feel for ten freaking minutes.

And he just smirked, as if he hadn’t just pulled me out of my darkness and left me hanging in the light.

We slipped into class late. Professor didn’t even look up.

But the whole time, I couldn’t stop thinking—

What the hell are we doing?

And why does it feel like something real is sneaking in when we’re supposed to be playing pretend?

This was my best Tuesday ever.

Which is saying a lot, considering the horrors I was going to experience in the afternoon at the hands of my monster.

There it goes again—my stupid head, never letting me enjoy the moment. It couldn’t just leave me be, couldn’t let me bask in this stupid little happiness. No, it had to creep back in, whispering reminders of what was waiting for me. As if joy was some crime I wasn’t allowed to commit.

And just like that, my mood dumped.

Crushed under the weight of what was coming.

Justin was sitting next to me, doing anything but listening to the lecture. He looked so calm. Detached. Like the world didn’t have claws constantly sinking into his skin.

Lucky him.

Except I knew better now. Knew he had his own monsters. His own noise. And maybe that’s why it was easier around him—why I let him pull me under behind the bleachers and didn’t fight it.

Because being with him, even when it was reckless, even when it was wild and fast and desperate—it was the only thing that shut my brain up.

At least for a little while.

But now it was back. The dread. The countdown.

And all I could do was sit there in that stiff plastic seat, pretending I wasn’t unraveling inside, while the clock ticked me closer to hell.

******

I was trying to concentrate.

Really, I was.

But Justin’s fingers were drumming against the edge of his desk, too slow to be idle, too rhythmic to be innocent. He wasn’t looking at the professor. His eyes were on me. That same unreadable stare that made it hard to breathe, like he could see through the layers I’d carefully put on this morning—my clothes, my confidence, my calm.

I ignored him. Or tried to.

But then I felt it—his knee brushing mine under the desk.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Casual. Teasing. Like he was testing the distance between us, daring me to tell him no. I didn’t.

He leaned closer, his breath whispering against the shell of my ear.

Low. Lazy. Dangerous.

"You okay, baby?"

I swallowed hard. My eyes stayed fixed on the lecture slides. I nodded.

Lied.

"Liar," he murmured.

His hand found my thigh. Warm. Heavy. Possessive. It rested there like it had every right to—like it belonged there. And I hated how fast my body reacted. The way my legs pressed together under the desk. The way my pulse skipped.

He slid his chair closer—inch by inch—his fingers gliding up, slow and sure, under the hem of my flared dress.

My breath hitched.

"Don’t," I whispered, barely audible.

His hand paused, but just for a second.

Then he smiled. Just a tilt of the lips.

"You don’t want me to stop."

God help me, I didn’t.

I bit down on my lip as his fingers climbed higher, tracing patterns against my inner thigh. Torturously slow. Every pass had my body tensing, every near-touch sent sparks up my spine. My knuckles turned white around my pen. I tried to shift in my seat, subtly.

He leaned in again.

"Don’t make a sound."

My heart pounded.

The professor kept talking. Slides flipped. Students scribbled notes.

And Justin’s fingers finally found me—pressing against the damp center of my panties.

Not inside.

Just... there.

A slow, deliberate rub that sent heat pooling low in my stomach. My thighs clenched instinctively, but it only made the pressure sharper.

I sucked in a breath through my nose, eyes locked on the board.

Keep still.

Keep quiet.

His fingers moved again, lazy circles over the thin fabric, just enough to make me want to cry and scream and grind down all at once.

Two can play that game.

I slid my hand down, casually, like I was adjusting my skirt—but let it fall onto his thigh.

Firmer than I expected. Tense. Waiting.

I didn’t stop.

My fingers flexed.

His breath hitched, just barely audible over the professor’s droning voice.

Good.

I slid my hand higher, dragging my nails lightly up the inside of his thigh. He stilled completely. No teasing now. No smirking. Just heat—burning, raw, heavy between us.

He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear, voice a whisper laced with threat and desire.

"Careful, baby. You’re gonna start something I won’t finish here."

I smiled without looking at him, my fingers pressing just a little closer to the bulge straining against his pants.

"Then I guess we’ll both be suffering."

He rubbed my clit through my panties—slow, firm, maddening. I couldn’t help it. My legs closed around his hand, a soft gasp escaping me before I could stop it.

His smirk widened.

Cocky. Confident.

So I retaliated.

My hand slid over his thigh, fingers brushing the hard outline beneath his jeans. When I cupped him—firm and deliberate—he froze.

Smirk? Gone.

Score one for me.

I slowly dragged his zipper down, the quiet zzzzzt lost under the murmur of the lecture. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t move. But his jaw tightened, and his eyes fluttered shut for half a second when I found him beneath the fabric.

Boxer briefs.

No skin.

But I could feel everything.

He was already hard, growing harder under my touch. My fingers traced the shape of him through the soft cotton, and he hissed under his breath—so quiet only I could hear.

"Still think you’re in control?" I whispered.

He didn’t waste time.

One second he was smirking—silent, smug—and the next, his fingers slipped past the barrier of my panties, and just like that, one slid inside me.

I faltered.

My hand stilled on his cock, fingers trembling as my breath caught in my throat.

Fuck.

He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, voice low and sinful.

"Thought you were winning?"

My eyes fluttered shut, hips shifting against his hand involuntarily. His finger curled just right, and I bit my lip to keep the moan down.

No. No. I couldn’t fall apart here. Not in the middle of class.

But God—he knew exactly what he was doing.

And I was already losing.