Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 109: A Different Shattering

JUNE POV

He still hadn’t moved.

Not properly.

He was inside me—completely, deeply—but motionless. His hand was still at my lower back, holding me bent over the counter, while the other lazily circled over the back of my thigh, sending pulses through already burning skin.

I couldn’t breathe.

Every second dragged with a taut kind of agony—him filling me, stretching me, holding me there without giving what I needed most. My hands gripped the edge of the sink so tightly, my knuckles had gone white.

And then his voice.

Right beside my ear.

Low, firm, and devastating.

"Do you even realize how good you feel around me?"

I whimpered, my hips twitching for more, and the sound only made him chuckle darkly.

"You’re so tight, baby," he murmured, finally drawing back—slowly, just an inch—"like you were made for this. For me."

My breath stuttered out.

And then, suddenly, he thrust forward again. Hard.

I gasped, head falling forward as my hair veiled my vision. My toes curled in my shoes.

Another thrust, deeper this time. Still slow. Still agonizing. He was dragging this out like some beautifully twisted art.

"Justin—please," I choked, not even knowing what I was begging for anymore. Release. Mercy. More. Everything.

His fingers brushed my spine, moving up to tangle in my hair as he leaned in. "Please what?"

"You know what," I breathed. "I need—"

He pulled almost all the way out, leaving me empty for a beat that felt like a lifetime. "Say it."

"I need to come," I admitted, voice cracked, broken with need.

His grip tightened, and then he began to move.

Properly.

No more teasing.

No more inch-by-inch torture.

Just rhythm. Depth. Pressure. Him.

And me—completely wrecked beneath it.

The stimulation from earlier hadn’t faded—it had just been waiting, simmering like a fire banked for too long. And now, with every stroke, every grind of his hips, it reignited like an explosion from inside.

My insides pulsed against every thrust, amplifying every sensation until I was right on the verge of—

"Not yet," he growled, slowing again.

I almost cried.

His hand came down on my hip, steadying me, grounding me, holding me still while he rocked deeper, once, twice—then paused again.

My thighs were shaking.

My voice was gone.

I didn’t know what to do with my hands anymore—where to put the wildness clawing through me. I wanted to scream, to sob, to grab him and force him to let me fall over that edge he kept holding me from.

"Tell me you’re mine," he whispered, breath hot on my neck.

"I’m yours," I gasped, not caring how desperate I sounded.

He grunted in satisfaction, hips snapping again.

Over.

And over.

Faster now.

Deeper.

I was unraveling.

"Say it again," he said.

"I’m yours."

My voice was trembling. Raw. Bare.

And then he pulled back—slightly—shifted his angle just enough and thrust again, hitting the exact spot inside me that turned everything white.

And I shattered.

There was no scream. No coherent sound. Just my mouth falling open as my entire body convulsed, walls clenching around him, head falling forward as heat exploded from the inside out.

His name. A breath. A plea. A curse. I didn’t know which left my lips. Maybe all of them.

But it didn’t matter.

Because he was right there with me.

Holding me. Guiding me through the storm he’d unleashed. And when the last aftershock hit, when my legs nearly gave out, he pulled me upright again and kissed the side of my neck gently, like a lover—soft, reverent, almost sweet.

Like he hadn’t just broken me apart.

Like I hadn’t wanted him to.

My body felt like it had dissolved and reformed.

My knees barely held. My heart still pounded in chaotic aftershocks. I leaned against the sink, trying to catch my breath, but even air felt like a luxury.

Justin didn’t speak at first.

He just stayed behind me, his hands gentle now, rubbing slow circles on my lower back like I hadn’t just come apart in his arms. The same hands that had wrecked me were now grounding me, bringing me back down from whatever delirious high I’d been floating on.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

My lips were swollen. My hair? A mess. My cheeks glowed like I’d run a marathon. And my eyes?

Yeah, I had that look—the one of a girl who’d just been thoroughly, savagely, completely ruined.

"You good?" he murmured near my ear.

I nodded, then shook my head. "I don’t even know what I am."

He chuckled—deep and low—and slid his hands around my waist, pulling me upright against his chest.

"You’re mine. That’s what you are."

God, his voice. How could it go from commanding to gentle in a single heartbeat? How could he make "you’re mine" sound less like a threat and more like a promise?

He brushed my hair back from my face, then reached to grab a small cloth from the corner sink counter. He wet it, wrung it out with one hand, and crouched down in front of me.

"Justin—what are you doing?"

"Taking care of my girl."

I didn’t argue.

Not when he gently lifted my leg, cleaned me with soft, careful strokes. Not when he adjusted my thong back into place and straightened my skirt. And definitely not when he rose, caught my chin, and kissed me like he hadn’t just dominated me minutes earlier.

That kiss was soft.

Sweet.

Dangerously addictive.

"You always do this after?" I whispered against his lips.

"Only for you."

That answer alone was enough to melt me all over again.

He stepped back and offered me his hand. "Come on, sweetheart. I’ll go first. You count to twenty, then follow. I don’t think anyone would expect we were gone that long... but your legs say otherwise."

I scoffed, trying to glare at him, but my thighs betrayed me with a subtle wobble. He smirked knowingly.

"I hate you," I grumbled.

He leaned in, brushed another kiss against the tip of my nose, and whispered, "No, you don’t."

Then—like he hadn’t just wrecked my entire morning—he unlocked the bathroom door and slipped out.

I stood there in the silence, heart still thudding, legs weak, lips tingling.

And somehow, through the mess and the afterglow and the lingering heat between my thighs...

I smiled.

JUSTIN POV

She tried to play it off.

Cool, calm, collected—like she wasn’t being slowly unraveled by the toys I’d left buzzing inside her. But I saw it. The shifting in her seat. The way she bit her lip every time her thighs clenched. The tiny, almost-imperceptible tremble in her hands as she scribbled notes she clearly wasn’t reading.

June was a walking, breathing contradiction of control and chaos.

And I was the one who’d lit the fuse.

So when she abruptly excused herself—muttering something to the professor about needing to use the bathroom—I didn’t even pretend to be surprised.

I gave her two minutes.

Then I slipped out too, smooth as a shadow.

The upper floor bathroom. Of course she’d go there. Fewer people. Fewer eyes. More space to lose her goddamn mind without interruption.

I took the stairs two at a time, quiet, calculated, my heart hammering with a kind of anticipation I hadn’t felt in years. She didn’t know I was behind her until she’d already opened the door and stepped inside.

I followed her in before it shut and clicked the lock.

The sound she made when she turned around—half gasp, half glare—was almost as satisfying as what I knew would follow.

"Justin—what the hell—"

Her words barely made it past her lips before I grabbed her and backed her into the nearest wall. She was flushed, panting, eyes wide, and I could feel the hum of the vibrator still alive inside her.

I pressed my palm flat to her abdomen.

"Still buzzing for me, baby?"

She swallowed hard, nodding, and I felt her arch ever so slightly into my touch—her body betraying every wall her brain tried to build.

Good. She was already cracking.

I didn’t rush it.

Instead, I hooked one of her thighs around my waist, forcing her open, giving me access to exactly where she needed me most. The second my hips aligned with hers, I could feel how wet she was through the thin fabric.

Grinding was all it took to make her melt.

She rocked against me like she couldn’t help it, her eyes fluttering shut, head falling back as the stimulation built again. That vibrator had been working on her for too long. Her body was a live wire.

I reached between us, found the little control remote in my pocket, and flicked it to the next setting. The moan she let out?

Music.

She trembled.

I moved slow, rubbing myself against her through my jeans, letting the pressure build until she was whimpering, clutching at my shoulders, begging for more without saying a single word.

Then I freed myself.

And slid against her folds—hot, soaked, ready—but didn’t push in.

Not yet.

I wanted her begging.

I wanted her losing her mind.

And she was close. So close.

I spun her around, chest to her back now, her palms braced against the sink. Her skirt was already bunched up, her thong uselessly pushed aside, her thighs sticky with arousal.

She gasped as I reached inside and slowly pulled the v-balls out, coated and dripping. I didn’t say anything—just let her feel the loss, the sudden emptiness.

But not for long.

I replaced them.

With me.

She nearly collapsed at the first thrust.

I caught her hips, held her steady, leaned in close. "You want me to let you come?"

She nodded desperately.

"Then take it."

And she did.

Her body took everything—every inch, every push, every grinding snap of my hips. She cried out, already right on the edge, and I pushed her there slowly, cruelly, perfectly.

When I finally let her fall over the edge, it was seismic.

Her whole body tensed, then collapsed in my arms. Shaking. Gasping. Destroyed in the best way.

I held her against me as she rode out every aftershock.

No rush. No pressure.

Just us. Just her. Just me. In our own chaotic, wild world.

And when it was over, I kissed her temple. Fixed her clothes. Wiped her clean with the soft cloth I soaked in the corner sink. Picked her hair tie off the floor and slid it gently into her hand.

"Come on, sweetheart," I whispered, brushing her hair off her cheek. "I’ll head out first. You count to twenty, then follow me. Pretend you weren’t just wrecked in the upstairs bathroom."

She glared, still breathless. "You’re so smug."

I smirked and kissed her forehead. "I earned it."

Then I left.

Still adjusting my shirt. Still feeling her on my skin. Still tasting the victory of knowing no one else would ever get to see June like this—shattered, gorgeous, mine.

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