Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 77: Exorcise June Using Pretty Cat

Justin POV:

As soon as I hit the highway, I pushed the gas down hard. The tires screeched, the world blurred, and for a moment, I felt weightless. Free. But even the wind couldn’t blow the image of June out of my head.

Her voice. Her scent. Her laugh.

Fuck.

I thought sleeping with Pretty Cat again would be like slipping into an old habit, but now that I’d had June for real, everything felt off-kilter. Would I be disappointed? Would the fantasy shatter under the weight of reality?

But maybe I didn’t need fantasy anymore. Maybe I just needed something to hurt the way she hurt me. Maybe that was enough.

I pulled into the hidden entrance of the Redbull Club. The valet didn’t say a word—just took my keys and nodded. Everyone knew me here. Knew not to ask questions.

The moment I stepped inside, the world shifted. Darkness wrapped around everything like velvet. The air buzzed with whispered promises and quiet sins. Celeste met me near the private corridor, clipboard in hand, as always.

"Room seven," she said. "She’s already there."

I didn’t respond. Just walked.

Each step toward the door felt heavier than it should have. My stomach twisted, a war brewing between rage and grief and something darker. Something hollow. Something hungry.

When I opened the door, she was already waiting.

Pretty Cat. Mask on. Lingerie black and sheer—like shadows woven into silk. She stood in the dim light like a secret begging to be unraveled. Her body was poised, ready, familiar—and still, she made my breath catch.

She moved toward me, silent and sure, hands brushing over my chest like she could feel the storm under my skin. Like she knew I wasn’t here for softness. I wasn’t here for tenderness.

I was here to burn.

And she knew it.

I pushed her down onto the bed, hard enough for the mattress to groan. She didn’t flinch. She looked up at me, watching, unblinking, as I stripped. Her breath caught when I stepped out of my pants, eyes locked below my waist like she was seeing me for the first time—even though we’d been here before. Countless times.

But it had been a while.

Maybe we both needed reminding.

Or maybe I needed her to look at me like June should have.

I climbed onto the bed, dragging my fingers over the delicate skin of her thighs, her stomach, her ribs. She shivered, like a live wire had been laid against her spine. I peeled her bra aside, her breasts spilling into view, nipples already taut with anticipation.

They begged for my mouth. So I gave them what they wanted.

I sucked, licked, bit—one breast at a time, my hand teasing the other with squeezes and pinches that made her gasp and writhe. Her back arched, a cry spilling from her lips as her mask tilted, but didn’t fall. I switched sides, relentless, fueled by something primal. Something possessive. Something broken.

Because in my head, this wasn’t Pretty Cat.

It was June.

And I was going to give her everything. Everything she thought she’d find in someone else.

By the time I reached her core, she was soaked—hot, ready, trembling under my hands. I groaned, low and rough, the sound vibrating against her as I touched her. Teased her. Pinched that sweet, sensitive spot until her hips jerked.

Then I slid a finger inside.

Slow. Deep.

She moaned—sharp and high—and I knew I had her. I added another, stretching her, preparing her for the kind of release that left nothing behind but ashes.

Because I wasn’t just here to fuck.

I was here to erase.

To rewrite.

To punish her in all the ways I wished I could punish June—for leaving, for choosing someone else, for making me feel like I wasn’t enough.

But this would be more than one round.

I was far from done.

And Pretty Cat—willing, wild, and quiet—was going to take every last piece of my madness until it bled out of me and into her skin.

She was writhing now.

Not just moving—writhing—like her body didn’t know whether to run from the sensation or drown in it. My fingers moved slow, deep, then fast, curling until her legs trembled and her voice broke apart into moans she couldn’t contain. Every cry she let out was a balm over the burn in my chest—and a spark that kept the fire going.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

I needed more.

I needed to bury myself in her until the ghosts went quiet.

"Hands above your head," I growled, voice low and thick with need.

She obeyed immediately—perfect submission—fingers fisting into the silk sheets. I pulled her thighs wide, let my eyes roam down the glistening heat between them, and licked my lips. I wanted to taste her. Devour her. But not yet. No. I wanted to see her come undone around me. Raw. Messy. Real.

I gripped her hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed.

She gasped when I pressed against her—bare skin against bare heat—and when I finally pushed into her, the sound she made wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Like something inside her snapped.

I bit down on a curse, head falling forward, forehead brushing against hers. She was tight, wet, gripping me like her body refused to let go—and I didn’t want her to. I wanted to stay locked inside her until the world fell away.

I started to move—slow at first, long strokes that made her toes curl, her breath hitch—but it didn’t take long before I gave in to the rhythm pounding in my chest.

I took her hard.

Fast.

Her body rose to meet mine, each thrust met with a cry, her moans filling the room like a symphony of surrender. My fingers dug into her hips, her thighs, her jaw. I wanted to mark her. Leave evidence. Proof that I was there.

That I still mattered.

She wrapped her legs around my waist, ankles locking behind my back as I slammed deeper, chasing that edge like it owed me answers. Her mask shifted slightly, revealing a flash of flushed cheek and parted lips—and for a split second, it was June’s face I saw. June’s eyes. June’s mouth whispering my name like a prayer.

"Justin..."

The sound wasn’t real—but I chased it anyway.

My hand moved between us, fingers finding that spot again, rubbing fast and tight until she shattered beneath me, her body clenching, her scream like a wound opening. That triggered something in me—something dark and frantic—and I followed, the release hitting so hard it knocked the air out of my lungs.

I collapsed over her, panting against her neck, our skin slick, tangled, trembling.

But even that didn’t quiet the storm in my chest.

I needed more.

I rolled us over, her body still twitching, and without a word, I pulled her back onto me, made her ride me until her legs gave out—until I could barely think straight. And even then, I wasn’t done. I bent her over the side of the bed, hands on her waist, and took her again, deeper this time. Slower. Crueler. Like I was trying to break something loose.

She cried out again. And again. And I fed off every sound.

Three rounds. Four. I lost count somewhere between the bruises blooming on her thighs and the sharp cries she tried to smother in the sheets.

When we were finally spent—both of us trembling, soaked in sweat, bodies heavy and worn—I collapsed next to her, staring at the ceiling.

But all I could see was June.

Still.

Even after all that.

Still.

And that terrified me more than anything.

Because no matter how many times I tried to exorcise her...

She was still under my skin.