Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 94: Addicted

JUSTIN POV

I kissed her like I meant to erase every trace of that bastard from her lips. My mouth moved with hunger, frustration, and all the fucked-up feelings I’d buried too long. She tasted like coffee and defiance and something addictively June.

When I pulled back, her lips were parted, breath shaky — her eyes dazed.

Good.

Before she could throw up that damn wall again — the fake relationship card, the sarcastic deflections, the lies — I slid my hands down, gripped her thighs, and hoisted her up. She yelped, arms flailing instinctively before wrapping around my neck.

"Justin! What the hell are you—put me down!" she whisper-yelled, squirming a little.

I didn’t answer.

I walked.

Right through the door. Past the hall. Let the stares come — let them fucking see. She was mine, and I was done pretending otherwise.

She buried her face in my chest, muttering curses, mortified.

"People are watching," she hissed into my shirt.

"I know," I muttered, adjusting her higher on my hips and letting one hand wander to squeeze the curve of her thigh through those damn sweatpants. "Might as well give them a show."

She squeaked, smacked my shoulder, but I didn’t stop.

"Because if you say no now," I continued, voice low and deadly serious in her ear, "I won’t keep pretending. No more fake boyfriend. No more playing house for the sake of secrets. It’s either you’re all the way in or I’m done. You hear me?"

She didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But her thighs clenched tighter around me, and her arms didn’t loosen their hold. I felt her heartbeat pounding where her chest pressed against mine.

Outside, I headed straight for my car — parked in my usual spot, tinted windows, private enough. I didn’t care if half the damn campus saw me carrying her like that. Let them guess. Let them wonder.

I opened the door, set her on the seat like she was breakable, even if my grip had just proven the opposite.

I stood at the edge of the open car door, my hands braced on either side of her. She looked up at me with those wild eyes. Like she didn’t know if she wanted to kiss me or slap me.

"Justin—"

"No. Don’t talk yet."

I leaned in again, kissed her slower this time. Not rough like earlier. Just lips against lips. Barely there. Like a question. Like a promise.

"I want the truth," I murmured against her mouth. "Who was he?"

She flinched.

"Tell me," I growled, "or I swear I’ll lose my fucking mind wondering who got to touch you—who left those marks on your neck—who made your legs shake when you walked in this morning."

Her breath caught.

"I need to know if I’m the only one losing sleep over this," I added, my voice dropping to something hoarse, broken. "Because I see you every night. I dream about you. I fuck someone else and still see you. Is it the same for you, or was that night nothing?"

She stared at me — really stared — like she was looking past my skin and bone and straight into the chaos that lived under it.

Then her hand reached up and touched my jaw.

And whispered, "It’s not nothing."

My breath caught.

"Then fucking say it."

She hesitated, lips trembling. "I don’t know how to do this. You... you’re not just one person, Justin. You’ve got your moods, your shadows—your voices. It scares me."

"Yeah?" I said, softer now, brushing her hair back. "You think I’m not scared? You think I don’t look in the mirror some nights and hate the version of me that stares back?"

Silence.

"But you," I continued, "you’re the one thing that quiets it all. When you’re near, I breathe easier. When I see you smile, the monsters shut up. That’s gotta mean something, June. It’s not fake. It never was."

I leaned in again, forehead resting against hers.

"Now say it. You’re mine, or you’re not. I won’t force you. But I need the fucking truth."

She didn’t answer.

Just sat there, still, her eyes heavy with things she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. That silence felt like a blade twisting in my gut. But I didn’t press. Not right now. I leaned in, clipped the seatbelt across her chest, trying not to notice the way her breath hitched when my knuckles brushed her collarbone. The spot I knew I’d find a hickey if I looked close enough.

A hickey not from me.

My jaw tightened.

I slammed the passenger door shut and rounded to the driver’s seat, anger coiling low in my gut like a ticking bomb. I didn’t know where I was driving, not exactly. But my hands knew—they took us to her place on autopilot, the only spot I could think of where we’d have even a chance of quiet. Privacy. Closure. Or a goddamn explosion.

Because if this was going to end, if she really didn’t want me, if all of this was just some deranged game of pretend—then I needed to know. I needed to hear it from her mouth, feel it in the finality of her words. Maybe then I could finally start carving her out of my system.

Or try.

Even if it meant leaving the country. Even if it meant checking myself into rehab. Anything but staying in this fucked-up limbo where I went home with other women only to see June’s eyes in every moan, every shadow. Pretending I wasn’t completely unhinged over her while she tiptoed around me, fake smiles and fake boyfriend bullshit.

It wasn’t just toxic. It was killing me slowly.

I could hear the voices already stirring in the background of my mind, hissing about betrayal and weakness, about being discarded. But I tuned them out. I’d done it once. I could do it again. For her.

I pulled into her apartment lot and parked, engine humming low as I sat there gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. She hadn’t said a single word the whole ride. I could feel her next to me, tense, small, quiet—but there.

I shut off the engine.

Turned to her.

Her eyes met mine for a split second—then looked away.

"Inside," I said hoarsely. "We’re not doing this in a goddamn car."

She nodded, barely.

We walked up in silence. I followed her in. The door clicked shut behind us, and for a long beat, we just stood there. Not talking. Breathing the same air but oceans apart.

"Say something," I finally said. My voice cracked. "Please."

Nothing.

I laughed—hollow, ugly.

"Right. You won’t say it. You won’t choose. Because it’s easier to let me hang in this limbo. Easier to pretend none of this means anything. That way, you don’t have to admit you’re scared."

She flinched. I saw it.

I ran both hands through my hair, pacing like a madman. "Because if you admit you want me, you’ll have to admit you want all of me. The messy, fractured, voice-ridden version. Not just the kisses in quiet corners. Not just the safe little charade you’re playing."

I turned to face her. "But I’m not safe, June. I never was. And I never fucking pretended to be."

Her eyes shimmered—whether from tears or anger, I couldn’t tell.

I walked toward her slowly. "So I need you to say it. Either tell me this is real and we try—or you tell me it’s done. And I’ll walk away. I’ll disappear, if that’s what it takes. I’ll go to another country, rehab, fucking join a monastery, I don’t care. But I won’t stay here pretending I’m okay when I’m not."

I stopped in front of her, just inches away.

"If this is our last day," I whispered, "then give me the truth. Because I can’t keep surviving on fantasies."

JUNE POV

I hated him.

I hated how much I didn’t hate him.

I hated how he knew exactly what to say, what string to pluck to make the whole damn symphony in my chest go off like fireworks on steroids.

And right now?

I hated that he was standing inches away from me, broken and furious and beautiful and mine—even though he never really was.

"If this is our last day..." he whispered, voice thick with unsaid things, "then give me the truth. Because I can’t keep surviving on fantasies."

The room felt too quiet. Too charged. Like the air was holding its breath for us.

I stared up at him, my throat burning with a thousand things I couldn’t say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So I did the only thing I could.

I kissed him.

I launched at him—hands tangled in his shirt, lips crashing into his like we were mid-war and I was choosing to lose. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw, angry, desperate. It was me screaming into him with every part of my body that I wanted him. That I still wanted him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, like I’d just confirmed every dark hope he had buried in that storm of a mind. His hands grabbed at my waist, lifting me like I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his hips, sweatpants and all, the kiss never breaking as he slammed me against the nearest wall.

His mouth was everywhere—my lips, my jaw, my neck, the very spot I’d tried to hide with my hoodie. His tongue found it and bit down just enough to make me whimper.

"You taste like lies," he growled against my skin.

"And you kiss like punishment," I hissed back, clutching his hair tighter, rocking my hips forward, feeling just how hard he already was beneath me.

"Then maybe we deserve each other," he said, smashing his lips into mine again.

The kiss turned bruising. Teeth clashing. Tongues fighting. There was no rhythm, just heat. My hoodie got tugged up, fingers slipping underneath. His touch wasn’t careful—he squeezed my waist, dug his nails in a little like he was branding me.

"You don’t get to make me insane then shut me out," he said against my mouth. "You don’t get to act like it meant nothing."

"It was supposed to mean nothing," I snapped, panting, "but you keep ruining that."

"Then let me ruin it more."

His mouth crashed into mine again, deeper this time. One of his hands slipped down, palming the curve of my ass through the thin sweatpants. I moaned into his mouth, grinding down, unable to stop myself.

His other hand cupped the back of my head, tilting me so he could take more, give more. Our bodies locked like they were molded for chaos, not compatibility. My back scraped the wall, but I didn’t care.

The kiss broke for half a second, and we just stared at each other—our lips swollen, breathing ragged, eyes blown wide.

"You’re driving me fucking insane," he said.

"Welcome to the club."

And then we were back at it, this time messier, hotter, hands everywhere, and neither of us knowing where it would end—but knowing exactly how it was going to start.

New novel 𝓬hapters are published on fre ew𝒆bnovel.com