Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 113: Taken

June – POV

His body pressed flush against mine, caging me between the rough, painted wood of the club’s back door and the hard line of his chest. I could still feel my orgasm rippling through my thighs, but Justin wasn’t giving me time to recover. He never did. Not when he got like this—when something dark and possessive snapped behind his eyes and he needed to finish what he started.

And God help me—I loved when he got like this.

"You’re not going back in there like this," he muttered, voice gritty, hips grinding into my backside. "Not before I ravish you"

"No," I whispered, cheek pressed to the door, legs still weak from his fingers.

He pushed my skirt up to my waist in one swift move, baring my ass to the cool air, the alley dim around us. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs digging in.

"Hands on the door," he ordered, voice suddenly sharp.

I obeyed instantly, palms splaying flat on the door like I was being frisked. I heard the familiar sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper sliding down. My breath hitched. Every nerve in my body focused on what was coming.

And then—fuck—I felt the thick head of his cock slide between my soaked folds, not quite pushing in, just dragging through the slickness, teasing me. I whimpered and pushed my hips back, desperate.

Justin gripped my ass, one hand smacking it—sharp and stinging. "Patience."

I wasn’t patient.

He knew that.

With one firm thrust, he buried himself inside me, bottoming out in one deep, ruthless stroke that made my eyes roll back.

"Oh my—fuck!" I choked, the stretch making my knees buckle.

Justin didn’t stop. His hands locked tight on my hips, dragging me back into him as he thrust again. Harder. Deeper. I gripped the door like it was the only thing keeping me upright as he pounded into me with raw, relentless force.

Each slap of skin echoed faintly in the alley, drowned beneath the muffled bass and drunken laughter spilling from the club just beyond the door. Anyone could walk out. Anyone could see. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t.

He was inside me, stretching me, filling me so completely it stole the breath from my lungs.

"God, you feel like a fucking dream," he growled, voice hot against my neck. "So damn tight. You missed this, didn’t you?"

"Y-yes—Justin—don’t stop," I gasped.

He didn’t. His pace stayed brutal, hips slamming into me, every thrust making my breath hitch, my body burn. The door rattled with each movement, the chill of it pressed against my chest a sharp contrast to the molten fire between my legs.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

I wanted more.

"Turn around," he rasped suddenly, pulling out with a groan that sounded almost pained.

I did as told, breathless and wrecked, legs wobbling as I faced him. He was wild—hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, eyes dark with lust. His cock, slick and glistening, jutted from the open V of his jeans.

He didn’t give me a second to think.

Justin lifted me again—arms firm beneath my thighs—my back slamming against the door as he sheathed himself back inside me in one brutal stroke. I cried out, the sudden fullness stealing every coherent thought from my head.

"Wrap your legs," he commanded, lips crashing into mine.

I locked my heels behind his back, arms around his neck, clinging to him as he fucked me against the door—raw, unfiltered, consuming. Every movement made my body jolt upward, my breasts pressing against his chest. I could feel everything—his breath, his pulse, the heat pouring off him.

And he was looking at me like I was his.

"You think I didn’t notice?" he growled, lips brushing mine. "Every time you danced without a bra. Every time your skirt rode up when you sat. You did it on purpose."

"I didn’t—" I tried, breath catching.

He bit my lip—hard. "Yes, you did."

Then his hand snaked between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing tight circles that made my eyes flutter shut. I could barely think. Could barely breathe.

"You’re gonna come again," he said roughly. "Right here. While I’m inside you. While you’re pinned to the door like my personal fucktoy."

"Justin—fuck—" My whole body shook, and I was already close. Too close.

He felt it.

He knew.

"You gonna scream for me, baby?" he taunted, fingers moving faster. "Let everyone in that club know who’s fucking you?"

"Y-yes—oh my—Justin!"

And then I broke again.

Pleasure crashed over me, stealing my voice, my thoughts, my grip on reality. My nails tore down his back, my legs squeezing around him as I shattered with a cry that was lost somewhere in the alley and in his mouth.

He groaned low and filthy, burying himself deeper, hips grinding into mine as he chased his own release.

"Fuck—June—fuck—"

With one final thrust, he stilled, cock twitching inside me as he came, spilling deep with a growl that vibrated against my skin. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, both of us panting like we’d run a goddamn marathon.

For a moment, neither of us moved. My legs were jelly, and he was still holding me like I weighed nothing. My pulse throbbed in my ears. My thighs were slick and trembling. The cool night air licked over my sweat-damp skin, and I shivered.

Justin finally pulled back, gently setting me down, his arms still around me as he tucked himself back in.

My skirt was useless. Wrinkled, bunched up. My blouse was open. I looked like I’d been mauled—and honestly, I had been. Loved every second of it.

He brushed my hair out of my face, eyes softer now. Less wild. More mine.

"You okay?" he asked, voice lower. A little hoarse.

I nodded, unable to speak. My lips were swollen, my thighs a mess, and I could still feel him inside me. "Yeah."

"You need help walking?" he asked with a crooked grin.

"Maybe." I laughed weakly. "You kind of broke me."

"Good," he said smugly, kissing my forehead.

He knelt briefly, adjusting my skirt and pressing a soft kiss to my thigh before standing again. "I’m keeping your panties," he added casually, patting his pocket.

I flushed. "Justin—"

He caught my chin, tilting it up. "So you remember next time you tease me."

"You’re insatiable."

"And you love it."

Unfortunately—yes. Yes, I did.

We slipped back into the club like nothing had happened—well, he did. I wobbled.

The music slammed into us again, the bass crawling under my skin, deep and possessive, like a second heartbeat. Bodies moved in sync with it, grinding and pulsing in the neon haze. I blinked against the sudden strobe, the smoke and sweat-heavy air, clutching his arm as we weaved back through the crush of people.

No one noticed. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care. That’s what this place was. A blur of lust, liquor, and no consequences.

Justin guided me to the side lounge area—just a step above the main floor, slightly raised, dimmer, more intimate. Low couches wrapped around black tables, the leather worn, the lighting sultry and red.

He dropped onto the couch, legs spread wide like a king claiming his throne, tugging me right onto his lap like he wasn’t just buried inside me a minute ago. His arm draped around my waist, possessive and heavy, and he leaned back with that smug glint still lingering in his eyes.

"Comfortable?" he asked, voice rough but teasing.

I arched a brow, shifting on his lap until I straddled him fully—my hands on his chest, knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his thighs. His smirk faltered as I rolled my hips down, slow, deliberate.

"Oh," I whispered, pretending innocence. "You mean me, or you?"

Justin inhaled sharply through his nose, his hands tightening on my hips. "Don’t start something you can’t finish."

"I don’t plan on finishing anything," I said sweetly. "Just... making you sweat."

His eyes darkened, jaw clenched.

Good.

I started to move.

Not fast. Not grinding wildly like the girls on the dance floor. I was worse. Slower. More intentional. A lazy, sensual roll of my hips that dragged my barely-covered core right over the thick bulge in his jeans.

I wasn’t wearing panties. My skirt was still wrinkled, hitched high on my thighs. And every time I rocked forward, I could feel just how much he hadn’t calmed down yet.

"June," he warned, voice like gravel.

I leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"Shh," I murmured. "We’re just watching the dance floor, remember?"

His hands slid down my hips, gripping hard. "You’re not watching anything."

I smirked, eyes locked with his as I rolled again, this time letting my chest brush his with every shift. My nipples were still sensitive from earlier—no bra, blouse slightly open, and the heat of him seared through the fabric. My hair fell forward, curtaining us from the club.

"You look good when you’re trying not to lose it," I whispered, rocking deeper, grinding just a little slower. "All that control... cracking."

He growled.

I felt it more than heard it. It vibrated up through my legs, into my hips, through every point of contact.

Then I leaned back just enough, letting my hands roam over his chest as I began to dance—really dance. My hips traced lazy figure-eights, my body undulating against him like the music itself had taken control. The lights flashed pink, then blue, then deep red again, flickering across my skin.

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