Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 92: Obsession

JUSTIN – POV

She was lying to me.

Every twitch of her lip, every flutter of those damn lashes, the way she couldn’t keep eye contact for longer than a second—it all screamed bullshit.

I could feel it crawling under my skin like fire ants.

Her stupid hoodie. The way she kept tugging at the collar like it could somehow erase the goddamn bruises I’d already seen.

The way she walked in this morning, all careful and tight-legged like her whole body had been wrung out the night before.

Yeah. I knew.

I fucking knew.

And still, I asked.

"Who were you with yesterday?"

I needed to hear her say it. Needed to know if she’d give me the truth—or if she’d look me in the eye with that sweet little mouth of hers and feed me another lie.

She took a step back. That alone told me everything.

But it was the answer—"no one"—that nearly pushed me off the goddamn cliff.

I stepped toward her, because I couldn’t help it. I needed her to feel the weight of this. Of me. Because she was acting like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.

But I did.

I fucking mattered.

"You came home late. Rico said you were walking weird." My voice was calm, but every word was dipped in acid.

She stammered something weak—walking? headache? fuck if I cared.

She wouldn’t meet my eyes. That’s how I knew it wasn’t Nate. I had already ruled him out. I’d been ready to punch a hole through his face, but the timeline didn’t match. So who was it?

Who had their hands all over her?

Whose mouth made those bruises?

Who got to see her fall apart?

And why wasn’t it me?

Because that was the worst part.

I’d been with Pretty Cat last night.

Used her body, fucked her until I couldn’t think straight. But in my mind—it wasn’t her body. It wasn’t her eyes. It was June. Always June. Every thrust, every moan, every goddamn filthy thing I whispered was for June.

That made it different.

Right?

Didn’t it?

I wasn’t cheating. I was... surviving. Pretending. Holding onto her in the only way I could without breaking every fucking rule she’d made between us.

But this?

This was betrayal.

Because she didn’t just fuck someone else.

She wanted to.

She sought it out.

And now, she was lying to me like I wouldn’t know the difference.

I stepped closer again. She backed into a desk, hands behind her like she thought she could steady herself. She looked small. Nervous.

Good.

"You’re wearing a hoodie in ninety-degree weather," I said, keeping my voice even, even though my jaw was tight enough to snap.

"I was cold."

Bullshit.

I laughed—just once. Hollow. Mean.

"Cold, huh? That why you’re limping too?"

She went still. Breath caught. And in that moment, I swear to God, I could hear my own pulse banging inside my skull.

"You think I’m an idiot?" I asked, stepping right into her space. "You think I can’t tell when someone’s been fucked that hard they can’t walk straight?"

Her eyes widened.

Good.

I wanted her panicked.

I wanted her squirming.

Because I was the one who got to fuck her like that.

Not some faceless bastard who didn’t know the difference between the way she moaned when she was close and the way she begged when she was desperate.

"I’ll ask one more time," I said, voice low now, coiled with every dark, unstable part of me she should’ve been afraid of. "Who. Was. It?"

She said nothing.

Just stared at me with those beautiful fucking eyes, lips parted, cheeks red.

But her silence screamed louder than anything she could’ve said.

And it made something in me snap.

JUNE – POV

"Why do you want to know?" I snapped, my voice coming out more defensive than I meant it to. "After all... it’s fake. Everything about us is fake."

There it was. The shield. The go-to excuse.

Our fake relationship. Our pretend couple act. That card I pulled every time I needed a way out. A reason to justify the way my heart kept tangling with his.

It had always worked before.

But not this time.

Justin didn’t even blink.

He took another step forward, and I hit the wall behind me.

Literally.

Hard, cold, unmovable. Like him.

He just kept coming, looming over me with that unreadable expression that always made my lungs forget how to work.

"You’re not getting out of this one with your little fake card," he said, voice low—dangerously low. "Try again."

I tried to swallow, but my throat was sandpaper. My fingers curled into the fabric of my hoodie. Like that could save me now. Like he hadn’t already seen past the mask and the fabric and the bullshit.

His hand came up—not to touch, but to plant on the wall just beside my head. Not rough, not hurting me. But my pulse still spiked like I’d been thrown against it.

Oh god. Here we go again.

That look. That intensity. The way he leaned in like he was about to kiss me, or maybe bite, or maybe devour every lie I’d ever told him until I was bare and breathless and ruined at his feet.

"You keep saying fake like that makes what we do go away."

His breath was hot against my cheek now. I could smell coffee and something darker beneath it. Something sharp. Feral.

"I can still feel you," he whispered. "From our many damn involvement. The way you shook. The way you moaned. Was that fake too?"

I felt my breath hitch. He noticed.

And that smug, knowing glint hit his eyes like a match to gasoline.

"You think I wouldn’t notice the way you were walking this morning? The marks you tried to hide?" His gaze dropped to the neckline of my hoodie. "You think I wouldn’t know the difference between aftershocks and a pulled muscle?"

His fingers twitched—like he was barely restraining himself from yanking down the hoodie to see for himself.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew I was already cracking. Already splintering from the heat crawling up my spine. From the fire in his voice. From the goddamn truth I was trying to outrun.

"It didn’t mean anything," I lied, voice quiet, traitorous.

He laughed, dark and mean and low.

"That supposed to make it better?"

I swallowed hard. "We’re not exclusive."

His eyes flicked back up to mine—and something in them went wild. Not loud wild. Quiet wild. The kind of wild that destroys you slowly. Deliberately.

"We’re not anything," I added, softer now. "So why do you care?"

Silence.

A beat.

Two.

Then he leaned in even closer, his lips ghosting the shell of my ear, and whispered,

"Because even when I was fucking someone else last night, it was still you I saw."

My breath caught. My whole body turned to ice and fire all at once.

Oh god.

Oh god.

He had been with someone too?

I wanted to be angry. I should’ve been angry. But all I felt was—

Jealousy.

Sharp. Ugly. Raw.

And something else...

Want.

Because I knew that voice. That whisper. That low, unhinged rasp that demanded surrender. I’d heard it last night. In that dark room. With the mask on.

With—

No. No. It couldn’t be.

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And something in my stomach flipped. Hard.

Could it...?

No.

No way.

But what if...?

His hand dropped from the wall. His eyes searched mine like he was trying to break into a vault I didn’t even know I had.

"You still haven’t told me who it was," he said.

I licked my lips, heart hammering.

"And if I don’t?"

His jaw ticked. His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll find out anyway."

And god help me...

Part of me wanted him to.

"Did you think about me at any time you were with that guy?"

His voice was low. A whisper meant only for me.

"Because I did," he added, leaning in closer—so close that I could feel the heat of his breath against my lips.

"When I fucked her... it was you I saw."

The words landed like a punch to the stomach.

Air. I needed air.

But he wasn’t giving me space. He was closing in, pressing me against the wall with nothing but the intensity of his presence.

"Did you see me?" he asked, and now his lips were brushing mine, barely there.

A breath. A heartbeat.

An electric pause.

I wanted to lie. I needed to lie.

Say no. Shake my head. Pretend none of this meant anything.

But my mouth betrayed me.

"Yes."

The word slipped out before I could stop it. A whisper, ragged and broken, so soaked in shame and need and truth that I couldn’t even pretend it didn’t happen.

His eyes flashed.

"You did think of me."

I nodded slowly, helplessly, hating how weak I sounded. How exposed I felt.

"You moaned for him," he growled. "But you were imagining it was me."

"Stop," I choked, because his voice was wrecking me. Because my knees were going soft. Because everything inside me was trembling.

"Say it, June."

"No."

His hand lifted, just enough to cup my jaw, forcing my eyes to his.

God, his fingers were warm. His thumb brushed the edge of my lip and my whole body shivered.

"Say it," he repeated, more like a promise than a demand. "Say you wished it was me."

I bit my lip. Shook my head again. I couldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

But I did.

"I wished it was you," I whispered.

And the second I said it—his mouth was on mine.

There was nothing gentle about it. Nothing sweet.

It was a collision. A fucking firestorm.

Possessive. Unforgiving. As if he was trying to erase every trace of last night from my lips. Replace it with him. His tongue pushed past mine, desperate and bruising. His hands gripped my waist, my hips, like he was barely holding himself back.

New novel 𝓬hapters are published on fre ew𝒆bnovel.com