Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 112: Bad Justin

June POV:

"Fucking idiots," Justin cursed under his breath before crashing his lips onto mine with enough heat to melt steel.

"We need somewhere private," he muttered against my mouth.

Before I could even catch my breath, he was already pulling my skirt back down over my thighs, buttoning my blouse with swift fingers, and—because of course he would—slipping my panties into his pocket like it was his damn trophy. He didn’t let me wear them again, either. Apparently, we weren’t done. Not even close.

He opened the door and tugged me out into the hallway, right into a crush of sweaty, overly perfumed bodies. He opens the door and drags me out into the chaos, right past a line of half-drunk girls pressed against the club wall. Their eyes flick to me—my messed-up hair, kiss-swollen lips, barely decent clothes—and their glares sharpen like blades.Girls—half-drunk and barely dressed—were lined up, pressed against the walls, clutching their glittering purses and plastic cups. Some of them glared as we passed, their judgment cutting. But I didn’t care. Not even a little. My legs were barely working, my body still thrumming from the way Justin had touched me, and I was too wound up to focus on anything other than the feel of his hand wrapped around mine and the pulse between my legs that refused to settle.

He pulled me with purpose through the crowd, past dancers grinding against each other, couples making out like they were alone in the world. Some had taken it farther, practically plastered to the walls in flickering light, shadows writhing to the beat of the bass. At one corner, I was almost sure someone was... yeah, they were definitely doing it. And no one cared. The club’s chaos swallowed moans like they were part of the soundtrack.

It was a miracle I didn’t lose Justin in the mess of moving bodies, but his grip on my arm was firm. Possessive. Like he wouldn’t let me out of his sight again.

He dragged me past the thrum of bass, weaving through the crush of bodies in the back of the club—where the music was louder, the air was hotter, and morality had long since left the building. Couples were smashed up against walls, lips locked, hands roaming. Some had taken it further—way further. One girl had her leg thrown over a guy’s shoulder, head tilted back in ecstasy, her moans drowned in the pulse of music and flickering lights.

It was chaos. Sweaty, euphoric chaos. If Justin hadn’t been holding on to me, I would’ve gotten swallowed by it.

The deeper we moved into the club’s rear hallways, the heavier the air became—heat and alcohol and sex clinging to every breath. By the time we reached the back exit that led to the alleyway, my thoughts were an incoherent blur of lust and anticipation.

The door shut behind us with a metallic thud, cutting off the music and leaving only the sharp rush of night air. But I didn’t get a chance to savor it.

Justin spun me around, pressing me against the door like the world might end if he didn’t touch me now. His mouth crashed into mine again, urgent and hungry, kissing me like we hadn’t just been interrupted minutes ago. Like he was picking up exactly where we left off—only more desperate.

His hips ground into mine, the hard line of his arousal pressing low against my belly. My breath hitched. A firm promise of everything that was about to happen.

God.

I was short—had always been shorter than him—but with the heels I wore tonight, I didn’t have to reach up to kiss him. Still, he leaned down slightly, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping across mine, tasting, devouring, promising things I wasn’t ready for but also couldn’t deny.

Then his hands were everywhere—finding the buttons of my blouse again, slipping underneath, brushing against bare skin and eliciting goosebumps. I gasped when his fingers found my breast.

Ah.

No wonder he hadn’t wanted me wearing a bra tonight.

His hand squeezed and shaped me like he’d done it a thousand times before, like he knew exactly how to unravel me. And he did. In seconds, he had me moaning against his mouth, my head falling back as his thumb and forefinger rolled over my nipple while his hips kept grinding against mine.

"Justin," I breathed out, half warning, half plea. I didn’t know whether to beg him to stop or never stop again.

One of his hands slid down, gripping the back of my thigh and lifting my leg up, hooking it around his waist so that my bare center—because yes, still no panties—pressed directly against his hardness.

"God, you’re killing me," he muttered against my mouth, one hand gripping my thigh.The pressure made my knees buckle. My bare, dripping center rubbed up against the bulge in his pants. I gasped, clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into his shirt.

Fuck.

My body answered instantly, a jolt of wet heat flooding between my legs. My skirt rode up, caught on my hip, exposing me to the cool night air and the press of him.

My arms looped around his shoulders, clinging to him. If he hadn’t been holding me, I would’ve melted to the ground.

His thumb circled my nipple, teasing it into a tight, needy point. He squeezed—firm, greedy—then rolled it between his fingers, twisting just enough to make my breath hitch and my hips grind against him.

"Justin—" I moaned, but it came out more like a whimper, more like please don’t stop.

He didn’t. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"You feel that?" he whispered, grinding against me harder. "That’s what you do to me. Walking around with no panties, tits bouncing under that blouse, looking at me like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing."

His words sent another jolt down my spine. My body betrayed me again, heat curling low in my stomach, wetness pooling between my thighs. It didn’t matter that we were outside, that the alley was barely private, or that anyone could walk past. All I could think about was him—his hands, his mouth, his voice.

He adjusted his grip, lifting me higher with surprising ease until I was nearly eye level with him, my back still against the door, legs around his waist, the rough material of his jeans creating a delicious friction where I needed it most.

I bit down on a moan as he rocked against me.

"Still think we should’ve waited till we got to your place?" he teased, kissing the line of my jaw, then my neck. "Because I don’t."

My head lolled back as his lips found the sensitive spot just below my ear, his tongue teasing while his fingers found my nipple again and tugged. My body jerked. "Justin—"

"Shhh," he murmured. "I’m not done with you yet."

His mouth lowered, his lips brushing across my collarbone, down toward the swell of my chest. Then he stopped, straightened slightly, and met my eyes.

"Unless you want me to stop?"

God help me.

"No," I whispered. "Don’t stop."

He bit my earlobe gently and I forgot my own name.

He chuckled darkly, clearly unconvinced.

His fingers pinched and tugged again, this time harder, and I arched into him. My nipple ached, and my whole body was on edge—too hot, too tight, too desperate. His mouth was back on mine, stealing my breath, drowning my moans, while his hips rocked into me in slow, filthy thrusts, like he was already inside me.

And God, I wanted him inside me.

I rocked my hips forward, greedy for friction, for relief, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. I needed more. I needed him buried so deep I forgot the damn alphabet.

Justin pulled back just enough to look down at me. His eyes were dark, molten. Dangerous.

"You want me to fuck you right here?" he asked, voice low, biting.

My pulse skipped. I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He smirked.

"That’s what I thought."

One of his hands slid between us, under my skirt. His fingers found my soaked slit and swiped through the slickness like he owned it. Like he’d been waiting for this confirmation.

"Dripping," he growled. "You’re soaked, baby. And I haven’t even fucked you yet."

I grabbed the front of his shirt, needing something to hold onto as he pushed two fingers inside me without warning.

My knees buckled. "Oh, f—Justin—"

He caught me easily, holding me up with that same strong arm hooked under my thigh, now lifting me higher. My heel scraped against his back as I clung to him, his fingers pumping in and out of me with expert, brutal rhythm.

Every thrust hit just right, curling my toes in the goddamn heels I couldn’t feel anymore.

The wall behind me felt miles away. The club was gone. There was only us. The cold door at my back, the night air on my skin, and Justin’s fingers inside me, pulling me toward the edge with ruthless precision.

He kissed down my jaw, licking the sweat from my skin, before murmuring against my throat, "You going to come for me like this? Out here where anyone could walk out and see you fall apart?"

My answer was a broken sound, half-moan, half-plea.

He bit my neck—sharp, claiming—and I shattered.

My body jerked, my nails dragged down his arms, and I came on his fingers, clenching so hard I felt him groan against my skin.

He pulled his fingers out slow, teasing, and brought them to his mouth.

"Sweeter than sin," he whispered, sucking the taste off with a smug grin. "But I’m not done with you, June."

And I knew he wasn’t.

Because when he let my leg down, turned me around, and pressed me up against the door with my ass against him, I felt the hard press of his cock again—this time even more urgent.

And this time, I didn’t want to wait.

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