Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 79: Celebration Or Punishment?

June’s POV

I don’t know how long I was out.

Minutes? Hours?

All I remember is the wall. My back pressed hard against it, my legs locked around his waist, his cock driving into me so deep I thought I might unravel. His mouth had latched onto my breast like he needed it to survive—his teeth pulling, tongue circling, lips sucking until I was moaning into his shoulder like a woman possessed.

Then came his fingers.

That hand. That damn hand—slipping down where we were joined, where I was already slick and clenching around him with every brutal thrust. He pinched that bundle of nerves with a precision that felt surgical, cruel, divine.

And I shattered.

Not gently.

It wasn’t pretty. It was wild. Explosive.

I think I saw stars. No—I know I did. My legs went numb. My whole body locked up and trembled like I was being electrocuted from the inside out. I screamed his name—not that I knew his real one—and then everything went black.

I must’ve passed out.

Because now, blinking awake on the bed, the room is still and quiet, but he’s gone. The mask I wore still intact on my face. My body is heavy—soaked in sweat and sore in all the ways that make you remember exactly who had their hands on you and how hard.

Good lord.

My thighs ache. My chest feels tender where he’d sucked, nipped, claimed. And between my legs?

Still throbbing.

Still slick.

Still stretched from taking every inch of him over and over until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

He did that.

Badwolf.

The man who wrecks me every time without ever showing his face. The man I keep coming back to because the real world can’t touch what we have in these hidden rooms.

I try to sit up, and immediately groan.

Mistake.

My muscles scream, hips bruised from where he held me, hips bruised from where I begged him not to stop. My nipples sting when the sheet brushes against them—tender, overworked, aching for more even while they throb from what they’ve already had.

God.

This week is going to be hell. I’ll be walking like I’ve ridden a wild animal bareback through a thunderstorm.

But you know what?

Totally worth it.

I fall back onto the pillow with a breathless laugh.

Best. Celebration. Ever.

Justin’s POV

I was wrong.

So fucking wrong.

Pretty Cat didn’t just meet my expectations—she obliterated them.

Or maybe... maybe it was because in my head, it wasn’t her at all.

It was June.

Every thrust. Every moan. Every scream. I imagined it was her—the woman who broke me, the woman I still wanted even while hating how much I cared. And maybe that’s what made tonight so brutal. So raw.

Because in my mind, I wasn’t just fucking someone to forget.

I was punishing someone I couldn’t.

When Pretty Cat collapsed—shaking, soaked, her body spent from what must’ve been her sixth orgasm—something in me finally went still. Silent.

She passed out, unconscious, her body twitching slightly as if she was still feeling aftershocks. I didn’t blame her. I’d taken her over every surface in that room—bed, wall, floor—until she couldn’t stand, until I couldn’t.

And for the first time in what felt like days, maybe weeks, the voices were gone.

No rage. No chaos.

Just quiet.

I was spent too—dripping in sweat, breathing like I’d run a marathon—but for once, I didn’t mind the exhaustion. My mind was too blissed out to care.

I stared at her for a long moment, her bare body sprawled across the sheets, chest rising and falling slowly, skin flushed and marked with proof of everything we’d done.

Then came the urge.

The temptation.

Just a flick of my fingers and I could see her face. Lift the mask. See the woman beneath the fantasy. The woman who gave herself to me so completely I almost believed the illusion.

But I didn’t.

I stopped myself.

Because that was the dangerous line. Once I knew her face, once I had a name, the fantasy would change. And then she wouldn’t be June in my head anymore.

She’d be her—Pretty Cat.

And I wasn’t ready to give up the lie I’d built. The illusion that it was June I touched. June I wrecked. June I made scream until she broke apart in my arms.

So I left her there.

Unconscious. Beautiful. A stranger I’d memorized inch by inch, but refused to really know.

Everyone who came to the Redbull Club had a reason for hiding behind masks.

I guess now I understood mine, too.

Because as long as I didn’t know who she really was...

I could keep pretending it was June.

*********

Rico told me the next morning, casual as anything, while chewing through half a bowl of cereal like we weren’t standing on the edge of a fucking storm.

"She’s back in town," he said. "Claimed the Matthews inheritance. Rented an apartment downtown—penthouse suite, no less. Oh, and she’s back on campus. Started classes this week."

I stood there, staring at him like he’d just told me the world had cracked in half and no one noticed.

She came back.

Not to me.

Not for me.

Back to the city. Back to the fucking campus where everything started. Where people still whispered about the golden couple who broke the mold—until we shattered.

Rico, oblivious or pretending to be, shoveled another spoonful into his mouth. "You gonna go back too? Or are you done with school for good?"

I didn’t know what to say. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I was too busy imagining the tidal wave that would come crashing down when people saw her—alone. No me. No hand-holding or those smug kisses in public we used to share that made people wish they had what we did.

Because we looked like perfection. We sold the dream.

And now?

Now, the dream was about to die in public.

Everyone still thought we were together. That she had simply taken time off for... mental health, maybe. Or something softer. A leave of absence, a sabbatical. No one knew the truth. No one knew about the voices in her head, or the monster she used to love who listened to his own.

They’d see her come back alone, and the rumors would start again.

And of course, her ex, Bart fucking Andrewson, would be there with a front row seat and a smug grin. He always said she was a cheater. Even when we were together, he’d whisper that poison to anyone who’d listen. He’d say she couldn’t be loyal to anyone. That the minute she got bored, she’d find someone else to scratch the itch.

And now? With me out of the picture?

They’d believe him. They’d all believe him.

Because the evidence would be right there: June, without Justin. No more golden couple. Just her, walking those halls like nothing happened, like she didn’t drag me into the fire with her and leave me burning.

And me?

If I went back now, I’d either have to pretend we were still something we weren’t—or explain why we weren’t. And I’d never survive watching her from a distance, pretending she hadn’t taken the one thing that kept me from collapsing under the weight of my own darkness.

The voices were already hissing at me.

"She replaced you."

"She moved on."

"She found someone to fuck away the ghosts."

Rico watched me, silent now, eyes narrowed. He knew better than to push when I was on the verge. I turned away before he could see the storm in my eyes.

"I don’t know," I muttered.

And I didn’t.

Because I wasn’t sure if going back would be the closure I needed... or the final nail in whatever soul I had left.

*********

I did go.

I wasn’t planning to. Hell, I’d told myself a dozen different excuses for why I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t stoop so low. Wouldn’t give her that kind of power.

But in the end, I fucking went.

Late in the day, long after most classes had let out, when the campus had started to quiet down into that low, humdrum twilight lull—students wandering in loose clumps, laughter echoing in the wind, leaves scattering under their feet. It felt surreal to be back.

Same buildings. Same stupid bulletin boards with faded fliers. Same smell of burnt coffee and paper and cheap deodorant.

Everything was the same.

Except me.

I wasn’t the same guy who used to walk these halls with a hand in hers, laughing like I wasn’t slowly rotting from the inside. I wasn’t the guy who used to watch her from across the quad, amazed she chose me out of everyone.

Now I was just... watching.

Like a ghost.

I didn’t go to her department. That would’ve been too obvious. Too pathetic. I hung around the science building, where the window angles gave me a clean view of the literature wing. I waited. Arms crossed. Voices snarling in my head like a pack of wolves circling something they couldn’t quite reach.

She’s probably already gone.

She didn’t even look for you.

She doesn’t care, Justin. She never did.

But then I saw her.

Coming out of the building like she hadn’t just fractured my whole fucking existence and walked away with the biggest piece of me. Her hair was a bit longer, a bit messier than she used to wear it. She had on a leather jacket—my jacket.

I froze.

It was mine. The one she used to steal on cold nights. The one that smelled like burnt coffee and my cologne and everything we used to be. And she was still wearing it.

The voices went quiet.

Just for a second.

I watched her walk—head up, confident, beautiful. Maybe too confident. Like she was starting over. Like she didn’t carry the blood of her past with her anymore. Like she wasn’t haunted. Like she didn’t need me.

But she does, one voice whispered. She’s pretending.

Or maybe I was the one pretending.

Pretending I didn’t miss her. Pretending I hadn’t gone to that damn club and spent an entire night fucking someone who looked like her, moaning into a void where her name should’ve been.

I stayed there. Watching. Breathing shallowly. Wanting to walk over.

Wanting to grab her by the wrist and say:

Why didn’t you come back to me?

Why did you let me become this thing without you?

But I didn’t move.