Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 45: Mine

Justin POV:

I hooked my hands under her thighs, carried her to the couch, dropped to my knees in front of her and yanked her joggers off with one sharp pull. Her underwear came next, soaked and sticking to her skin. She squirmed under my stare, but didn’t look away.

I spread her thighs.

And she was already soaked.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t tease.

I buried my face between her legs like a man possessed, like she was salvation and I’d gone too long without a drop. Her cry was sharp, her hand flying to my hair again, holding on for dear life as my tongue moved slow and deep—then fast and relentless.

Her hips bucked, thighs trembling, breath turning to high-pitched moans as I devoured her, tasting her unraveling. When I slipped two fingers inside, she nearly broke in half, legs clamping around my head.

"J-Justin—fuck—please—"

I didn’t stop until she screamed, back arched, body convulsing, coming hard around my fingers, my mouth still latched to her like I couldn’t get enough.

I rose up, wiping my mouth, watching her body twitch in the aftermath—wrecked and perfect and mine.

And then I pulled my jeans off.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Just need.

She sat up, pulled me into her again, kissing me like she could taste herself on my tongue. Her hands went straight to my cock, wrapping around it with shaking fingers. I groaned, hips jerking into her palm.

"I need to feel you," she whispered.

I pushed her back against the cushions, spread her thighs again, and lined myself up.

Looked her dead in the eye.

And slid in, slow and deep.

She gasped, mouth falling open, and I dropped my head to her shoulder, groaning as I bottomed out. She was tight, wet, and perfect—so fucking perfect.

We stayed like that for a breath, a moment of suspended time, clinging to the last thread of control before it snapped.

Then I started to move.

Hard. Deep. Relentless.

The couch creaked beneath us, our bodies a tangle of limbs, gasps, curses, and moans. Her nails dug into my back as I pounded into her like she was the only thing left tethering me to earth.

She met every thrust with desperation, her cries getting higher, tighter. My name fell from her lips like a chant, like a fucking prayer.

I reached down, rubbed her clit with my thumb and she broke—screamed again, clenching around me so hard it stole my breath.

I followed with a growl, buried so deep I wasn’t sure where I ended and she began, spilling into her with a cry that sounded more like relief than release.

We lay there after, limbs tangled, breath ragged.

Sweaty. Shaking.

Silent.

Too silent.

Because now came the part that scared me more than anything else—

What the fuck did we just do?

Her fingers were still on my skin. Barely. Tracing absent-minded swirls over my chest like the silence didn’t weigh a thousand goddamn pounds between us.

My throat was dry. My head a blur. My body still humming with aftershocks. The floor beneath my back was cold now. Unforgiving.

She exhaled—soft, slow.

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because if I did, I’d say something. And if I said something, it’d be the wrong fucking thing. Again. Like always.

Her leg was draped over mine. Her cheek pressed against my shoulder. She belonged there, the way the moon belongs to the night.

But my mind kept shouting—this isn’t real.

This wasn’t us.

Not anymore.

"You okay?" she whispered, voice hoarse from screaming. From moaning. From all the filthy, beautiful things we just did on this floor like animals.

Like lovers.

Like strangers who couldn’t stay away from the fire.

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

My hands were still on her back, limp now. I could feel the faint, fading tremble in her spine, and I hated that it made me want to pull her closer. Hated it more that I wanted to protect her from a world she kept choosing to survive without me.

What a fucking joke.

She shifted, her thigh rubbing against mine, hips brushing just enough to make my cock twitch again in protest. I was too spent to move. Too wrecked to act. But my body, my traitorous goddamn body, still reacted to hers like she was mine.

Because she had been. For those moments. She was mine in every breathless scream. In every filthy moan. In every greedy grind of her hips and every time she begged for more. She asked me to ruin her—and I fucking did.

And now?

Now she was quiet. Like it didn’t mean anything.

Like I didn’t mean anything.

"You’re quiet," she said, brushing hair from my face. I flinched before I could stop myself. Just a tick. But she noticed. Of course, she did.

I could feel her retreat even though she didn’t move. Like the walls were building again in her eyes, and I hated that I knew how that felt. I hated that I was the same way.

I sat up slowly, her arm sliding off me like it never belonged there. My back ached from the hardwood. My skin buzzed from where her mouth had worshipped, bitten, begged.

I needed a drink. Or five. Or a bullet between the eyes.

Instead, I grabbed my boxers from the floor and stood, not looking at her.

"Was this your plan?" I said, my voice low. Dangerous. "Come cry at my door, then climb on my dick?"

Her breath hitched. I heard her shift, sit up, wrap the throw blanket around herself. She didn’t speak.

Coward.

I turned. Saw the guilt on her face. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. Maybe it was mine, projected back at me.

My jaw clenched.

"What, June? No defense?" I laughed, dry and humorless.

She blinked. Slowly. "I didn’t come here for that," she said quietly.

"Right. You just needed to feel something." I shook my head, pacing now. "Because you suddenly remembered you have a fake boyfriend somewhere?"

Her expression cracked. "Justin..."

"No. No, don’t say my name like that. Like I’m some wounded little boy who needs your pity."

She stood now too, blanket barely covering her, defiance returning to her chin like a shield.

"I didn’t come for pity," she snapped. "I came because you’re the only one who ever made me forget."

I stopped. Cold.

Forget.

That word. That fucking word.

I knew what she meant. I knew it too well.

We weren’t lovers. Not really.

We were each other’s escape hatch.

Her I didn’t actually know.

Me from the voices that wanted me dead.

My breath came in sharp, angry pulls. My fists clenched.

"You think I’m your goddamn cure?" I snarled. "You think crawling into my bed is gonna erase whatever it is your trying to forget?"

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were glassy, mouth trembling.

I moved then. Fast. Had her pinned against the wall in a second, my hands flat beside her head, my breath ghosting over her face. Her pupils dilated. Her chest rose and fell fast.

"You use me like I’m a fucking drug," I growled. "Get high. Come down. Then leave."

"Then don’t let me," she whispered.

That stopped me.

She reached up. Palmed the side of my neck. Pulled my face down until our foreheads touched.

"I don’t know how to want anything else when it’s not you," she said, voice trembling. "I try. God, I try."

I felt myself break again.

Crack.

Fracture.

Because I understood. I understood too well.

"Say you’re mine," I said, barely audible. "Lie to me, June."

"I’m yours," she breathed.

I kissed her. Hard. Desperate. My hand tangled in her hair as I dragged her back to the ground. I needed her again. Needed to fuck her until neither of us could think. Until her scent was so deep in my skin I’d never be clean again.

I didn’t undress her this time—I ripped the blanket off, shoved her onto her stomach.

She gasped as I pulled her hips up.

Doggy.

No foreplay. No words. Just the sound of my breath and her soft whimper as I filled her again, rougher this time.

This wasn’t romance.

This was punishment.

This was obsession.

This was me marking her from the inside out, because if she was going to lie and say she was mine, then I was going to fuck her like it.

I gripped her hips, snapped into her, every thrust hard and cruel and raw. She cried out, fingers scrabbling at the floor.

"Louder," I growled, slapping her ass. "Let the whole fucking building hear you."

She did.

Again and again.

And then I pulled her up. Shifted us into butterfly, her back on the floor, knees pressed up toward her chest as I hovered over her, pinning her in place.

Our eyes locked.

She opened her mouth to say something.

I didn’t let her.

I kissed her again. Brutal. Claiming.

Because I couldn’t take her silence.

Because I couldn’t take the way she made me feel wanted.

Because I didn’t know how to be loved.