Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 60: Silencing The Voices

June – POV

The darkness was thicker than sleep.

It bled through my dreams like oil—suffocating, heavy, toxic.

I was back there again. In the dark.

The voices whispered — no, screamed — calling me a monster, showing me blood, the glint of silver, the fork buried in his neck. My adopted father’s eyes wide with disbelief. My hands shaking, red-stained.

Monster...

The word slithered through my mind, voiced by the ones that had lived in my head for years. No... decades? Or had it only been moments? Time bent strangely when they whispered.

You stabbed him, one hissed. Right in the neck. With a fork.

Another cackled. Such a good little freak. Just like they made you.

Images flashed like lightning behind my eyes. Blood splattering across porcelain floors. My own hands trembling, still gripping cold metal. His gurgles. His pleas.

Then nothing.

Dark again.

Until the whisper turned sharper—You’ll never be clean, Number Twelve.

Never be loved.

I jolted awake with a scream caught in my throat, torn from a place too deep to reach. My chest heaved. The room—quiet, dimly lit, sterile—clenched around me like a tomb. I was tangled in sheets I didn’t remember climbing into. The air tasted like steel.

The voices didn’t fade.

They grew louder. Angrier.

Kill. Scream. Bleed.

I clutched my head, curling forward as their accusations became unbearable. I couldn’t tell which were memories and which were hallucinations anymore.

There was only one truth I could cling to:

I was not safe inside myself.

The door slammed open. I flinched violently, ready to attack—but froze.

Justin.

My Number Nine.

He rushed to my side, hands reaching for me like I was breakable porcelain. His eyes scanned me—panic, worry, fury, all twisted into one storm.

"June?" he breathed, crouching in front of me. "I heard you—talk to me. Please."

I couldn’t speak. Not over the screams in my head. Not over the knives of guilt stabbing my ribs from the inside.

He’ll see what you are, the voice sneered. Just like the rest did.

But he didn’t back away.

He touched me. Gently. A hand to my cheek, grounding. Real.

And I knew.

I knew what would silence them.

It always worked. The heat. The touch. The skin. It drowned them out. Flushed them away in waves of something I didn’t have a name for.

This time, I wouldn’t run.

He was already here. I didn’t have to search, or beg, or find some stranger in a bathroom stall to quiet the storm.

This was Justin.

This was him.

The one I forgot.

The one I was never supposed to lose.

I reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt, and pulled him close before my own doubt could speak.

I kissed him.

Desperate.

Starved.

He froze for a breath—maybe in shock, maybe in memory—and then he melted into me like he’d been waiting years for this. His mouth moved with mine—rough and soft, tender and wild, our lips colliding like crashing thunderclouds.

My Number Nine.

He came back.

And I wasn’t letting him go.

His mouth was on mine, more urgent this time, and I let the world fall away—let the voices hiss and fade as the heat replaced them.

His hands found my waist, fingers digging in like he was anchoring us both. I could feel the charge between us — heavy, electric — like we were caught in the middle of a storm we couldn’t outrun.

"June..." he breathed against my skin, voice low and uncertain. "What’s going on?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The words would break me open. And right now, I didn’t want to feel anything except this.

So I kissed him again — harder this time. Fierce. Hungry.

He responded in kind, his grip tightening as our bodies moved closer, no space left between us. I felt his heat, the tremble in his breath, the way his chest rose and fell against mine.

My fingers slid up his back, over warm skin and muscle. He let out a low sound in the back of his throat — like a growl laced with restraint. I wanted to tear it all down, strip away the hesitation until there was nothing left but instinct and need.

When he pulled me onto his lap, my breath hitched. His hands held me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.

"Are you sure?" he asked, searching my eyes. Always him — even in the fire, he gave me a way out.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. "I need this," I whispered. "I need you."

That was all it took.

His lips crashed into mine like a match to gasoline — hot, reckless, full of everything we hadn’t said.

I didn’t care about sense, didn’t care about questions or the storm still howling in my chest. I just needed to feel. Needed to drown out the voices with him.

Our hands were everywhere at once — tugging, gripping, pulling at clothes like they were in the way (because they were). I fumbled with the hem of his shirt, desperate to get it off, and he helped, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside like it had offended him.

The second it was gone, I was on him again. Lips, tongue, teeth — claiming him the only way I knew how.

His hands were in my hair, then sliding down my back, pulling me closer until I was straddling him on the bed, knees pressing into the mattress, my breath hitching when his lips found the curve of my throat.

"June," he murmured, like my name was something sacred and dangerous all at once.

My fingers found the waistband of his sweats, tugging with no patience, no pause. His hands mirrored mine, slipping under my shirt, dragging it up. For a second, our lips broke apart — just long enough to rip it off — then we were back at it again, like the space between us was oxygen and we were both starving.

There was nothing slow or sweet about this. It was fast, frantic, the kind of need that comes after holding back for far too long.

I moaned into his mouth as he laid me back against the pillows, his weight pressing into me in all the right ways. Every kiss, every touch, was a promise — one neither of us said out loud, but both of us felt.

And in that moment, with clothes half-off and hearts fully undone, nothing else existed. Not the past. Not the voices. Not the fear of losing him again.

Just us — raw, breathless, and burning.

I don’t remember when exactly he opened my shirt — maybe somewhere between his mouth trailing down my neck and my brain turning to fog. But suddenly, it was undone, my bra pushed up, and his mouth latched onto me like he needed me to breathe. God. I was already gone.

My jeans came off in a messy blur, hands fumbling and needy, the room pulsing with heat and urgency. I barely managed to get his pants down; he was still in his briefs, but I could feel how ready he was — thick, hard, pulsing. My own body betrayed me, soaked with need, trembling with anticipation.

He didn’t speak, and he didn’t need to. His mouth was back on mine in an instant, devouring, claiming, his fingers tangled in my hair as he kissed me like I was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

And maybe I was.

My legs fell open for him without a thought, like muscle memory, like instinct. His hips pressed into mine, grinding slow and deep with just enough friction to make me ache. His hard length dragged along my center through the lace, making me moan into his mouth.

The tension curled in my gut like fire.

His hands were everywhere — in my hair, on my waist, cupping the back of my thigh, pulling me closer, deeper. He moved against me again, slow but deliberate, and I gasped. My body arched. My nails dug into his shoulders.

I needed him. All of him. Now.

His voice was a low growl, thick with desire. "Your panties are soaking wet."

The words sent a ripple of heat down my spine. I gasped as his hand moved, purposeful and teasing, brushing against my center with just enough pressure to leave me breathless. He didn’t wait—just pushed the fabric aside and slipped his fingers inside me.

A sharp cry escaped my lips.

My hands gripped his shoulders as he moved, slow at first, then faster, his touch precise—knowing. Curling his fingers just right, he coaxed a sound from me that didn’t even sound human. The world narrowed to that place where his skin met mine, the tension winding tighter with every stroke, every curl.

Then suddenly, he stopped.

I whimpered, frustrated and trembling, the emptiness more maddening than the pleasure had been. My eyes flew open, meeting his, dark and burning. He fumbled with his briefs....

And then—he moved.

One smooth, powerful thrust and I was lost. I gasped, my back arching as every inch of him filled me, claimed me. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. My name, the world, everything else blurred into nothing.

There was only him.

The way he moved inside me, like he knew my body better than I did. The way his hands roamed, firm and possessive. The way he whispered my name like it meant something more—like I meant something more.ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm