Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 93: No Right

JUNE – POV

"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.

I clung to his hoodie, trying to remember how to breathe.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This couldn’t happen.

But god, I needed it.

Because everything had become a lie except this—except the burn of his mouth and the rage in his kiss and the way I wanted to cry and scream and melt into him all at once.

"You’re mine," he whispered against my lips, raw and bitter. "Even if you hate it. Even if you fight it. Even if we keep pretending it’s fake."

He kissed me again, harder this time. Rough and aching. My head spun.

He found a hickey—bad wolf hickey, —and dragged his tongue over it. Trying to replace it with his.

I gasped, my body lighting up like a match struck to dry skin.

He grinned against my skin. "You’re marked. You’re mine. Always were."

I shoved him back. "You don’t get to say that. Not when you were with someone else too."

His smirk faded just a little. "I was with someone else. But I saw you in every moan. I kissed you in every gasp. I was trying to forget you... and all I did was crave you."

I looked away, tears stinging. Not because I was sad.

Because it was all too real.

He grabbed my chin again, forcing me to face him. "Did he make you feel what I do?"

I shook my head. "No."

The admission gutted me.

Justin leaned in, forehead resting against mine. "You drive me insane, June."

"Then stop caring."

"I’ve tried," he said. "But even my madness wants you."

******

I won’t lie.

I was mad. Furious. The kind of fury that simmers in your blood and makes your vision blur around the edges. The kind that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with emotion.

The thought of Justin with another girl — even if he said he thought of me — made my insides twist.

I hated it.

I hated knowing his hands were on someone else. His lips. His body.

I hated that I had no right to feel this way.

Because what we had? It was supposed to be fake.

Supposed to be pretend.

A stupid lie we told to keep things simple.

Except nothing about this was simple anymore.

What I had with Justin was becoming toxic.

A wildfire that left me breathless and burned every time I tried to put it out.

Gods, I tried to end it.

Tried to run.

Did run.

But yet — here I was. Again.

Pushed up against the lecture hall wall, trapped between Justin’s body and the chaos inside my head. His lips on mine. His hands gripping me like he’d die if he let go.

My mouth still tingled from his kiss.

My heart still thundered with the heat of it.

"Let’s make it official," he whispered into my ear, voice thick, rough — all possession and longing. "Let’s stop this fakeness."

A tremor ran through me.

Part of me wanted to scream yes.

Yes to him.

Yes to this madness.

Yes to the terrifying, all-consuming, violent way he made me feel.

But then the rest of me remembered.

What about his voices?

What about mine?

What about the way he sometimes looked at me like he wasn’t sure which version of me was real? The part of him that could snap — switch — vanish behind the eyes and become someone else entirely?

And worse: the part of me that responded to that side of him. The part that craved the chaos. That felt alive in the violence of it.

My voice caught in my throat.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. His gaze was intense, unreadable. But not unfeeling.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked quietly.

You, I wanted to say.

The scary version of you.

And worse—the scary version of me that wants you anyway.

"I..." I tried, but nothing coherent came out. I looked away. "I don’t think we’re good for each other."

"You don’t think we’re good," he echoed, voice suddenly flat. "Or you don’t think I’m safe?"

I flinched.

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He stepped back, just a bit — like he was giving me room, but not really. "I’m not going to pretend I’m normal, June. You know I’m not. I’ve got... my demons. So do you."

His eyes searched mine.

"But don’t lie and say what we have is fake."

I wanted to argue. But the truth was tangled in my throat.

Because it wasn’t fake. Not when he looked at me like this. Not when I felt like this.

"Even if we wanted it to be fake," he said, "this thing between us doesn’t follow rules. Doesn’t give a fuck about logic. It’s just there."

I swallowed hard. My back still pressed against the wall. My chest still aching with all the words I couldn’t say.

"We’re toxic," I whispered.

He stepped closer again, his hand brushing my cheek. "Then we burn together."

I shivered.

His forehead leaned into mine, that signature move that made everything feel too intimate, too vulnerable, too real.

"We can try to fight it," he said, voice lower. "We can keep pretending. Or we can stop lying. Be mine, June. Officially."

My heart jumped. Tripped. Fell into the abyss.

But my mind still whispered doubts.

What about the dangerous side of him?

What about the others inside him?

What if the darkness in me only fed the darkness in him?

Could love grow in madness? Or were we both just circling the drain?

His thumb brushed over my lips again.

"Say yes," he murmured, eyes wild with longing and something that scared me. "Even if it’s a fucked-up, messy yes. I’ll take that over silence."

I stared at him, shaking, unraveling, wanting.

And gods help me — I was almost there.

On the edge.

Of yes.

Of ruin.

Of him.

"Fuck it," he growled.

The next thing I knew, his hands were on my thighs — and I was off the damn ground.

"Justin—!" I gasped, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck just to avoid breaking my skull on the floor.

He hoisted me up like I weighed nothing — sweatpants and all — like I was just another part of him. A fucking extension of his will.

"Put me down," I whisper-yelled, glaring into his neck. "What are you doing?"

He didn’t answer. Just turned on his heel and started walking... out. Out of the lecture hall.

"What the—Justin!"

I clung tighter as he stalked past the rows of desks, straight into the hallway like it was a runway and we were on parade.

My face burned.

I could feel the eyes.

Could hear the whispers.

Could taste the shock and thrill in the air like smoke.

Because even if people believed we were a couple, this... this was on another level.

I hid my face in the crook of his neck, mortified. "Put me down already, people are watching!"

He chuckled — the bastard actually chuckled — and then had the audacity to squeeze my thighs like I was some prize he’d claimed off a shelf.

"Good," he said, his voice low, dark amusement curling through it. "Maybe it’s time they all saw what it looks like when someone’s mine."

"Justin," I hissed again, even lower. "This isn’t funny—"

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. And definitely didn’t care.

His lips brushed against my ear as he whispered, "We might as well give them the last show. Because if you say no, June... if you say no to us, I’m done pretending."

I froze.

His grip shifted slightly — not painful, but firm. Steady.

"If you’re not mine," he murmured, "then don’t expect me to keep playing this little fake boyfriend game. It’s either you’re all the way in..." He paused. "Or nothing at all."

My breath caught.

My heart slammed.

Because I knew what he meant. This wasn’t just about the charade anymore. This wasn’t just about sex, or drama, or jealousy.

This was about the edge we were standing on — one foot in, one foot out, hearts dangling between passion and destruction.

All the way in... or nothing at all.

The cool air hit us as we neared the exit doors of the building. He was still carrying me, like it was the most natural thing in the world — like I belonged there, wrapped around him.

And I couldn’t even tell anymore what burned more — the humiliation, the heat, or the sheer pull of him.

People had stopped. Stared. Whispered.

Some even laughed nervously.

But all I could hear was his heartbeat. All I could smell was his cologne, clinging to my skin.

And somewhere deep inside, even beneath all my mortification, all I could think was: Gods, I never want to get down.

Not if it meant walking away from this madness.

From him.

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