Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 44: Succumbing

Justin – POV

The voices had dulled—not gone, but fading, like they’d crawled back into whatever pit they came from, just for now. Like they’d gotten full off my fear and wanted to digest in peace.

I drove fast. Tires screaming around corners. Windows cracked enough to feel the cold slap of night air against my cheek. I didn’t turn on the radio. Couldn’t stand the thought of another voice in my head, even if it was just some pop singer trying to make heartbreak sound catchy.

It was already fucking dark.

Great.

I’d spent hours reliving my own goddamn horror show like some twisted rerun on loop. Body aching. Brain fried. Heart a clenched fist of something I didn’t want to name.

I pulled into my complex like I’d been summoned back by some dark force, because apparently, peace wasn’t part of my karmic deal.

The elevator was slow.

Everything was too quiet.

And when I turned the corner to my hallway—

There she was.

June fucking Matthews.

Curled up right outside my apartment door like a ghost in a hoodie. Her head tucked into her knees. Arms wrapped tight around herself. Her whole body looked... small. Folded in like she was trying to disappear into herself.

What.

The actual.

Fuck.

I froze. Just stood there, keys in hand, staring like an idiot.

You ever have a moment where the universe just laughs in your face? Yeah. That was me. Right then. Right there.

What the hell did I do in my past life to deserve this kind of cosmic prank?

Didn’t her stupid guy—whatever the hell he was—not fuck her hard enough to keep her in bed?

Why the fuck was she on my door?

Why was she... shaking?

And why—why—did something in my chest tighten at the sight?

I stepped closer, slow. Not wanting to spook her if she was awake. But the way her breathing was shallow and uneven, her body unmoving...

Goddammit.

She was asleep.

Curled up like a stray cat that wandered too far from home and gave up at the doorstep of the one person she knew wouldn’t kick her.

Except she didn’t know me. Not really. Not the way she thought she did.

And I wasn’t a fucking savior.

I was the thing you survived.

I stood there, the keys digging into my palm, my mind a whirlwind of curses and reasons to walk away—to leave her there and pretend I never saw her.

But I didn’t move.

I just... looked at her.

Hair tangled from wind or panic. Mask half-fallen off her face. She looked young. And wrecked. Like she’d run here with nowhere else to go. And something about that hit a place I’d buried deep, under years of silence and static.

I hated her for it.

For showing up. For looking like that. For needing something from me.

And maybe—just maybe—for making me feel like I was the only person left who could give it.

I wasn’t stupid.

Not anymore.

Whatever the hell her game was—I wasn’t playing it. Not again. Not after what I saw.

So I reached for my door, jammed the key in the lock, hands still trembling from everything I’d tried to bury on the drive over. My jaw clenched, muscles coiled like I was ready to fight a ghost. Or maybe myself.

I was gonna go in.

I was gonna leave her there.

Let her sleep in the hallway if that’s what she wanted. Let her rot in her own silence the way I’d rotted in mine.

But the second the lock clicked—

She stirred.

Her head jerked up in that sharp, twitchy way people do when they wake from a nightmare. Or when they realize they’ve been found out.

She lost her balance and nearly fell sideways, catching herself clumsily on her hands as she scrambled upright.

Her hood slipped back.

Her eyes found mine.

"You’re back!"

She said it like I was something good.

Like my return meant hope.

Excited. Relieved. Like she hadn’t—

No.

Nope.

Don’t go there, Justin.

I didn’t need the image again. June in a towel. On a bed. Opening her legs like a fucking invitation. That man—that old, smug fuck—climbing between them like he belonged there. Like she wanted him.

My stomach twisted, bile rising.

I pushed the door open.

Didn’t even look at her. Just hissed—

"The fuck are you doing here?"

Sharp. Cold. Bladed like glass.

She flinched. Hard.

Good.

I wanted her to feel it. I wanted her to bleed, even if it was just inside.

She straightened her spine like she was trying to grow taller than her guilt. But I saw it. The crack in her expression. The shame she was probably too proud to admit.

But that didn’t stop her from trying to play sweet again.

Didn’t stop her from pretending like nothing had happened.

Like I hadn’t seen the fucking truth.

And I?

I was done pretending.

She didn’t know I knew.

Didn’t see it in her eyes. Not the guilt. Not the panic. Not the way someone looks when they’ve been caught with their legs spread for someone else.

And maybe that’s what pissed me off most.

Not the cheating. Not the lies. Not even the fact that she played me like a fucking instrument with her sweet voice and pretty eyes.

No.

It was that she didn’t think I’d see it. That she thought I was still the same dumb, soft fool who’d let her in—again and again—like I didn’t bleed the last time.

So yeah, I judged her.

Call me a hypocrite. Go on.

I’ve got my own damn sins buried six feet under and one bottle of whiskey away from resurfacing.

But she—she had hers dancing naked in front of a window like she wanted someone to watch. And lucky me, I did.

I shifted, shoulder pressing to the door frame, blocking her like a bouncer at a place she didn’t belong anymore.

"June—don’t."

But she didn’t listen. Of course she didn’t.

In one fast, frantic second—before I could process the madness in her eyes—she moved.

Shoved past my arm like she belonged here. Like I hadn’t iced her out.

Her body crashed into mine with the weight of desperation, of hunger, of something feral. She slammed the door shut behind me with her own weight, sealing us in this fucking chaos.

And then—

She kissed me.

Hard.

Like a storm with teeth.

Hands in my hair, tugging, pulling—mouth crashing into mine with no rhythm, no grace. Just raw, wild, messy.

Like she’d gone mad.

Like I was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her hands were in my hair—fisting, yanking—dragging me down into her madness.

And I went.

God help me, I went.

My mouth crushed against hers, brutal and unforgiving. I didn’t ease into it. Didn’t think. Just took. Poured every bit of rage, heartbreak, confusion—every fucked-up piece of myself—into her mouth.

She whimpered against me, and that sound—that desperate, broken sound—lit something primal in my chest.

I spun her, slamming her back into the door with a thud, lips still locked, teeth clashing. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to bite down on her neck—not hard enough to bruise, but close.

She gasped.

I growled.

Our bodies were a mess of friction, heat, and need. My hand ran down her spine, grabbed the back of her thigh, lifted—and she wrapped that leg around me like she’d been waiting for this, begging for it in silence.

"Fuck," I hissed against her throat. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t."

But she kissed me harder, nails scraping down my chest, lips trembling.

"I need you," she whispered—like it was a sin, like it was a confession.

And I hated how much I needed her too.

I pressed against her, pinning her to the door, grinding until there was no space, no thoughts, no sanity left. My other hand slipped under her hoodie, fingers skimming bare skin—hot, soft, familiar. Her breath hitched, hips rolling into mine.

Clothes didn’t matter. Right and wrong didn’t matter.

Only the way her tongue moved with mine, wild and clumsy. Only the way her body melted into me like she was trying to crawl into my skin.

She moaned—low, wrecked, aching—and I bit down on her bottom lip hard enough to make her flinch.

She tasted like desperation and danger.

I kissed her like I was drowning.

Because I was.

Her body arched into mine, breath shallow, hands everywhere—under my shirt, up my spine, digging into muscle like she needed something to hold or she’d shatter.

And maybe she would.

Maybe we both would.

I grabbed her other thigh, lifted her clean off the ground. She gasped and locked both legs around my waist instinctively, her arms looping around my neck, mouth crashing back into mine like she was starving.

I carried her across the apartment, her back hitting the nearest wall, hard. She didn’t flinch. She moaned, head falling back, neck exposed like an offering.

I took it—mouth, tongue, teeth.

She writhed against me, hips grinding into mine, making me hiss through clenched teeth. I slammed my palm against the wall beside her head, needing something to hold on to before I lost it completely. She was heat and chaos and fire in my arms.

My free hand tugged her hoodie up, yanking it over her head. Her mask came off with it, dropping to the floor with a quiet flutter. The sight of her bare face—flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy—knocked the breath right out of me.

"June," I whispered like a curse, like a prayer.

She didn’t answer—just kissed me again, deeper, more frantic. Fingers gripped the hem of my shirt, dragging it over my head and tossing it somewhere behind us. Her nails scratched down my chest, my stomach, and fuck—I groaned, resting my forehead to hers, panting.

"You still want this?" I asked, voice rough, trembling.

She nodded, but it wasn’t enough.

"Say it," I demanded.

"I want you," she gasped, desperate, already tugging at the waistband of my jeans. "Now, Justin."

That was all it took.