Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 111: Justin’s Personalities

June POV

It’s officially been one week.

One week of dating Justin — for real this time. No fake labels, no pretending, no maybes.

And in just seven days, I’ve met... several versions of him.

Some mornings, he wakes me up like he’s Romeo reincarnated — kisses on my forehead, breakfast made, eyes soft like I’m the only girl in the universe. Other times, he’s got that dangerous, obsessive vibe, like a mafia boss straight out of a dark romance novel, telling me to wear what he picks and glaring at anyone who looks my way for longer than a second.

Then there’s the dominant freak. The Mr. Fifty Shades version. Yeah, that one. The one who has me breathless against the wall, whispering things no gentleman would ever say, and doing things that definitely shouldn’t feel that good... but do.

It’s a lot.

Loving Justin is like playing roulette with personalities. Spin the wheel — will today’s Justin be sweet? Possessive? Dangerous? Wickedly seductive?

But even if it’s weird... it’s also real. He still shows me love. Twisted, messy, chaotic love — but love all the same. And I’ve learned to wake up every day with one question on my lips:

Which Justin is it today?

Still, there’s one version I haven’t seen again — and I pray I never do.

The one from that day. The version of him who told me, calmly, coldly, to stab my adoptive father. The one whose voice held no warmth, no mercy. The Justin whose eyes didn’t recognize me — just burned with vengeance and rage.

That version scared me.

Not the good kind of scared — not the thrilling rush that makes your heart race and your thighs clench.

The other kind.

The kind that makes your blood run cold.

And every time I kiss him now, every time I fall a little harder, I wonder: Will that version come back? Will I be able to handle it if he does?

I don’t know.

But I do know this — I’m already too far in to walk away.

And part of me... the stupid, reckless part... wonders if even that darkest version of him still loves me too.

I wonder if he even knows he’s not the same person he was yesterday.

One minute he’s sweet, soft, mine. The next, he’s dangerous, dark-eyed, and burning with something I don’t dare name. It’s like he carries multiple lives inside one body, each fighting for control.

Sometimes I catch him looking in the mirror like he’s searching for someone he doesn’t quite recognize. And honestly? I get it. Because I do the same thing.

I wonder if I’m okay.

I wonder if I’m mentally stable enough to love someone like him — someone who shapeshifts between tenderness and madness, love and obsession. Between gentle hands and the kind of rough dominance that makes your knees weak and your morals flicker.

But then again... were any of us ever okay?

And yet, I fell for all of them.

I don’t even know what that says about me. Maybe I’m broken too. Or maybe I’ve always been. I mean... ever since we were raised in that facility, it’s been clear—we weren’t made to be normal.

That raised us in white walls and dirty needles. That showed us how to survive instead of how to live.

We aren’t okay. We haven’t been for a long time.

So maybe this is what love looks like for people like us: messy, intense, a little bit unhinged.

And maybe that’s sad. Maybe it says something twisted about who I’ve become — that my idea of happiness is being loved by a man with fractured minds and demons deeper than oceans.

Still... this week?

This week has been the happiest of my entire existence.

No nightmares dragging me under.

No cold hands clawing at my skin in the middle of the night.

No monster in my bed, pretending to be a parent.

He’s gone. And in his absence, I finally got a taste of what freedom feels like.

Luxury. Laughter. Justin. And now? I even get to enjoy the monster’s money. Yeah, don’t judge me. After years of surviving, I think I’ve earned a little compensation.

And, okay—maybe a little fun spending his money too. He doesn’t complain, and I don’t feel guilty. Not when it’s the least the universe owes me. Even though justin insist of spending his money when he is with me. Where the hell does he even gets his money?

It’s the weekend. We went out clubbing—our kind of night. Flashing lights, loud music, sweat, stolen kisses. His arm around my waist like a warning. Like a promise.

The club is pulsing. Lights flash. Music roars. My head is light from dancing, from vodka, from kissing Justin like I’ll never get enough — like he’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning for years.

We barely made it to the bathroom. Half drunk on adrenaline and lust, the door slammed shut behind us and he had me against the marble counter before I could even catch my breath.

And now... we’re in the club bathroom.

Door locked. Clothes wrinkled. Breathless chaos.

And Justin’s head is between my thighs.

Fuck.

My back arches. My fingers tangle in his dark hair as he devours me like a man starved — like I’m the only thing he needs to survive. He’s not gentle, not tonight. There’s something unhinged about the way he’s eating me out like he wants to erase every trace of anyone who came before him.

Every lick, every suck, every graze of his teeth is pure sin wrapped in velvet pleasure.

"Justin," I gasp, voice cracking as my body trembles. "God—"

He doesn’t respond. Just digs his fingers deeper into my hips, holding me still as he sucks on my clit like he’s trying to own my soul through it. His tongue teases, swirls, plunges — and I swear I’m going to black out from the intensity.

My back’s against the cool tile wall, my skirt pushed up around my waist, thong hanging uselessly around one ankle. My fingers are tangled in his hair—desperately trying to stay quiet, but he’s relentless. Hungry. Focused like I’m his last meal.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even look up.

Just licks, sucks, devours—like the club outside doesn’t exist. Like all that matters is the way I taste on his tongue and the way my thighs tremble against his shoulders.

This isn’t gentle Justin.

This is the one who claims. With tongue. With mouth. With absolute, merciless control.

And I am coming undone for him. Right here. Right now.

Bathroom sex in a packed club?

God help me, I don’t care.

Because right now?

I feel alive.

And I don’t want it to end.

And still, beneath the fog of mindless pleasure, a single thought rises:

I love all his versions.

The broken ones. The dangerous ones. The sweet, silly, possessive, and wicked ones.

Because no matter which one wakes up tomorrow...

He’s still mine.

And right now?

I’m most definitely his.

Oh God—oh God.

I can’t hold it anymore.

My thighs are trembling like I’ve been electrocuted by lust and Justin’s wicked tongue is the fucking current. My hands are in his hair, my nails digging in like I’m trying to scalp him in thanks. My breath comes in strangled gasps and every part of me is strung tighter than a snapped violin string.

Then I hear it.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Someone’s pounding on the bathroom door.

Are you kidding me?

Don’t they hear my screams? My very obvious, very holy-shit-someone-is-getting-fucked-senseless screams?

Apparently not.

Or maybe they do and they just want a turn at the bathroom.

"Occupied!" I want to shout, but all that comes out is a broken moan because Justin—fucking Justin—is still at it. Completely unfazed by the knocks. His face is buried in my core like he lives there now. Like the pounding on the door is just background noise to the concert he’s conducting with his tongue.

He growls against me—yes, growls—and I nearly levitate off the counter.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

He’s swirling his tongue in this maddening rhythm, like he’s trying to unlock a cheat code to my soul. I writhe, I clutch the edge of the sink like it’s going to save me from drowning in him.

He’s relentless.

Focused like a mad scientist hell-bent on unraveling me molecule by molecule.

I hear the knock again. "Hey! People are waiting out here!"

Oh, sweet summer child. Not now. I am busy.

Still Justin doesn’t stop. If anything, he goes harder, sucking on my clit like he’s trying to pull a confession from my bones. His fingers dig into my thighs, holding me open, holding me his.

And then—

White hot heat. Lightning in my spine. A scream rips from my throat so hard my voice cracks halfway through it.

I’m gone.

I’m completely undone, shattered into a thousand orgasmic little pieces right there on a bathroom counter while strangers knock and wait their turn and Justin?

Justin licks me through it like a fucking god.

And when I finally come down, panting, shaking, half-numb and half-blissed-out, he looks up from between my legs, chin glistening, eyes dark and smug and just—

"I told you," he says, voice husky, "don’t distract me when I’m focused."

Oh. My. God.

And here I thought he’d already ruined me.

Turns out, I was only getting started.

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