Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 87: Releasing Tension

JUSTIN POV

I hung up the call with Rico, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might shatter. "Keep tabs on him," I’d said. "Trail his ass. Dig up everything—where he lives, who he talks to, if he even blinks in June’s direction, I want to know."

Because something was off with Nate. Real off. And if he thought I was going to sit around and watch him circle June like a vulture? He was dumber than he looked.

I needed to cool off. Burn this rage out before I did something that would land me back in a cell or worse, some padded room with locked doors and no windows.

So I got on my bike and rode until the air cut my face and my thoughts stopped clawing.

The neon lights of Red Bull glared like a siren’s call when I pulled up. The bass inside hit like a second heartbeat. I didn’t even bother pretending this wasn’t where I was always going to end up tonight.

The mask slipped on like second skin.

Bad Wolf was back.

I walked in, straight past the velvet, nodded once at the pairing counter.

"You know who I want," I said, voice low, controlled. Barely.

The woman behind the desk smirked like she’d been expecting me. "She’s here. Room seven."

Of course she was.

A few minutes later, I was in the room. Low lighting. Black walls. Chains, cuffs, silk, leather—pick your poison.

I didn’t sit.

Didn’t wait.

The room was already hot when I stepped inside.

Low lights. Red velvet walls. Leather restraints on hooks. A mirror on the ceiling. The air smelled like sweat and sin and something old and primal.

I didn’t wait.

Didn’t pace.

I stood there, breathing through my teeth, every nerve raw. My fists clenched like they could still feel the ghost of Nate’s smug fucking face. I was seconds away from exploding—rage, lust, confusion, all twisted together in a rope that needed to snap.

The door clicked open.

Pretty Cat.

Same lithe figure. Same tight black outfit. Mask in place. Those eyes.

Not hers.

Not June’s.

But close enough.

I grabbed her the second she walked in.

No words. No warmup. Just need.

My hand shot to the back of her neck, yanking her in as my mouth slammed against hers—rough, dominant, messy. She moaned into it, already wet, already ready. My other hand slid down her spine and grabbed her ass—hard—like it owed me something.

I shoved her into the wall, lips moving down her throat, biting hard enough to bruise. My hands were on her tits, squeezing like they were the goddamn pressure valve holding back all my fury. She gasped, grinding against me, whimpering like she loved being used.

I tugged her top down just enough. No need to strip her yet. Her breasts spilled out, perfect handfuls, begging to be handled.

So I did.

I squeezed, kneaded, pinched her nipples between my fingers like they were my last grip on reality. Her head dropped back, moaning louder now, and my mouth covered one of them—teeth scraping, tongue flicking as she writhed against me.

"Fuck," she panted. "Fuck—Bad Wolf—"

"Shut up," I growled. "You’re not here to talk."

She whimpered.

Good girl.

I turned her around, hiked her skirt up, and shoved her panties aside with one hard jerk. She was dripping. Practically shaking.

I lined up—still dressed from the waist up, pants just down enough—and drove into her with one brutal thrust. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

She screamed.

Not in pain.

In bliss.

Her hands clawed the wall, legs trembling as I slammed into her again, again, again. Fast. Hard. Deep. My grip bruising her hips, one hand still on her ass, squeezing like I could fuck the ghost of June out of my system.

But she was June.

In my head, in the dark.

She was.

And I fucked her like she was.

"Yeah, take it," I hissed in her ear. "Take every fucking inch like the good little fuck you are."

She cried out—body jerking, legs going weak. She came hard, shaking under me as I kept going, not slowing down for a second. I buried my cock in her to the hilt, groaning into her shoulder as I came right behind her—hot, sharp, body tensing like a fucking bomb went off in my spine.

We didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stood there, tangled in sweat and come and sin.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

I needed more.

Everything.

I turned her around, stripped off the rest of her clothes like they were offending me by still existing, and shoved her down onto the bed. Face down. Back arched. Legs open.

I dropped my shirt. Kicked the rest of my clothes off. Climbed behind her and grabbed her hips like I owned them.

No pretense now.

Just need.

Just fucking.

I slid back into her, slow this time, but deep. She gasped, twitching under me as I started to move. Hard, even strokes that built like thunder in my chest.

Her fingers gripped the sheets, knuckles white. My hands gripped her ass, spreading her wide, driving into her like I was punishing something.

I wasn’t in the room anymore.

Not really.

I was in my head.

Fucking June.

Marking her. Owning her. Erasing Nate’s face with every goddamn thrust.

Her voice in my head. Her scent. Her whimpers.

My name on her lips.

My name.

Mine.

I leaned over her, chest pressed to her back, and bit her shoulder—hard. She screamed again, breaking apart under me for the second time.

I held her hips, pulled her into every snap of mine, and came again—hot, furious, emptying everything I couldn’t say, couldn’t feel, into her body.

Only then did I stop.

Only then did I breathe.

Still inside her.

Still chasing a ghost.

June POV

I stormed down the campus path, every step echoing the furious beat of my thoughts. Justin’s voice kept playing in my head — "You have to stay the fuck away from Nate." The nerve. The audacity.

He was calling Nate shady? He, with his wild eyes and darker-than-black moods, the same guy who tortured people in the name of whatever twisted version of justice he clung to like a damn badge? And then he had the gall to walk away after what he did in that closet?

I hated how much I felt. I hated that I wanted to believe him. Hated that he still got under my skin, got between my thighs without even touching me. That stupid janitor closet scene replayed over and over in my head, like my body was too dumb to realize he left me hanging like a dropped call mid-orgasm.

I should be mad. I am mad.

But I was also horny. Aching. Wet.

He’d lit a fuse and then just... walked away.

No explanation. No finish. No relief.

Now I was furious and frustrated. My body ached, my thighs slick with unfinished tension, and my chest tight with so many conflicting emotions I could barely see straight.

I needed to let it out.

I needed to burn it out.

So I did the only thing that ever worked when my head and body were in full mutiny.

I went to Red Bull.

By the time I passed through the heavy doors, I already felt the weight peeling off me. The pulsing bass. The dim crimson lights. The scent of sweat, sex, and something heady in the air. I moved through it like it was instinct. Like I was home.

The bartender didn’t even need to ask. One look at my mask and he slid me a drink—something strong, dark, biting.

The lights were dark and seductive, the air thick with musk, smoke, and secrets. Everyone was wearing masks. Everyone here came to forget.

I downed two shots the moment I got to the bar, not even asking what they were. Burned all the way down. Good. I wanted it to hurt.

Then I slipped into one of the side lounges—where the real voyeurs went.

The air in there was hotter.

Heavier.

There were bodies on display in front of me, behind a fogged half-glass partition. A couple—fully masked, already at it. Rough and wild. The kind of fucking that was both a performance and a punishment.

The woman was seated over a high table, legs spread, moaning shamelessly. The man gripped her thighs, pulled her to the edge, and slammed into her. Rough, relentless. Her cries echoed, his growls more animal than man. He lifted one of her legs to his shoulder, changing the angle, and her whole body jolted as he pounded into her.

The heat in my core flared hard.

I pressed my knees together, biting the inside of my cheek, pulse hammering in places I didn’t want to admit. I didn’t come here for this. Not this part. But it didn’t matter.

The tension was bubbling. That dark part of me—the one I buried under books and smiles—was wide awake, ravenous.

I swallowed hard. My thighs clenched. My hands itched to slide beneath the thin flair skirt I wore. Every sound of skin slapping, every cry and groan echoed inside me like a damn siren song. My body hummed in time with theirs.

It should’ve been me.

"Pretty Cat."

The voice was low, respectful, masked like everything else in here.

I turned slowly.

A staff member in black stood at my side, gaze downcast in a display of practiced discretion.

"Bad Wolf has requested a session," he said. "Would you like to accept?"

My heart stopped.

Bad Wolf.

Every nerve lit up. My lips parted. The ache between my thighs pulsed hotter.

He didn’t know who I was as I didn’t know him. That was the whole point of this place. But here, under the lights, behind the masks, we didn’t have to be versions of ourselves twisted by our history. Here, we were raw. Unfiltered. Free.

I didn’t even hesitate.

"I accept," I whispered.

He didn’t see the way my lips curled, just slightly. The way my fingers twitched with anticipation.

He didn’t need to.

My body was already burning.

And Bad Wolf was about to put out the fire the only way he knew how.

My heart thundered like a war drum as I followed the staff down the corridor. Past moans, past screams, past people shackled and tied and loved and ruined.

Room Seven.

The door loomed.

I paused. My hand trembled. Not with fear—but with anticipation so sharp it was almost pain.

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