Fake Dating The Bad Boy

Justin

I don't go home.

I head straight to Red Bull Club.

This place is for those who crave something beyond ordinary.

Hidden behind an unmarked black door in the heart of the city, it's a club for those with desires most people wouldn't admit to having.

No cameras. No judgment. No limits.

You walk in, write down your fantasy, and if you're lucky—someone fulfills it.

I don't come here to participate. Not usually. I just watch. I sit in the dimly lit lounge, drink whiskey Let other people's desires distract me from my own. Because apparently some people like being watched.

But tonight…

Tonight, I need something else.

Something hard. Rough. Unapologetic.

Something to pull me out of my own head, to burn off the anger still tightening my muscles.

The bouncer nods when he sees me, stepping aside to let me through. No one questions me here. Money speaks louder than rules, and I've been a member long enough to be trusted.

Inside, the air is thick with expensive perfume, low jazz humming beneath the quiet murmurs of people making arrangements. Velvet booths line the room, occupied by men and women sipping wine, their eyes lingering on whoever catches their interest.

The bar glows under dim lights, bottles lined up like trophies.

I head straight to the Fantasy Desk.

A woman in a red dress sits behind it, scrolling through the requests left by tonight's clients. Her name is Celeste, and she knows exactly who I am.

"Didn't think you'd be signing up tonight," she says, lifting a brow as I lean against the counter.

I don't answer. I just reach for a slip of paper.

Celeste smirks but doesn't comment.

I scan the requests, my pulse still beating hard in my skull. Most of them are predictable. Submission. Teasing. First-time experiences. soft touches, whispered praises, sweet submission.

Not what I need.

I flip through until I find something darker. Something that matches the fire clawing under my skin.

I need something that will rip this frustration out of my chest and burn it into the ground.

Then I find it.

Hard. Rough. No names. No talking. Masks required.

Perfect.

I grab a pen, sign my name, and slide the slip back across the counter.

Celeste takes the slip, reads it, then looks up at me, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

"Feeling aggressive tonight, are we?"

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders. "Just set it up."

Her smirk deepens. "Room 7. Ten minutes. You know the rules."

I nod once and walk away.

And for the first time tonight, I stop thinking about June Matthews.

*********

Down the hallway, the air is quieter. Darker. More intimate.

Doors line the corridor, each leading to a different fantasy in progress. Some open, revealing glimpses of silk restraints, candlelit encounters, bodies moving together in controlled chaos.

I stop at Room 7.

Inside, a single black mask waits for me.

I pick it up, running my fingers over the smooth surface.

The final barrier between who I am outside this room… and who I become inside.

I slide it on, securing it in place.

The anger I felt before? It's no longer just anger.

It's something else now.

Something darker.

Something I'm more than ready to unleash.

And as I close the door behind me, I let it take over.

I don't hesitate.

I slide the mask over my face, adjusting the strap until it's secure. The black leather is smooth, cool against my skin, stripping away the last piece of my identity.

Here, I'm not Justin Black.

I'm no one.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders as the tension inside me sharpens, condenses. The rage from earlier hasn't disappeared—it's just changed. Shifted into something darker. Something primal.

I push open the inner door to Room 7.

The space is dimly lit, illuminated by nothing but a few soft, amber-colored lights. There's no unnecessary decor. Just dark walls, a leather couch, and a bed draped in black silk. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, laced with something heavier. Something dangerous.

She's already inside.

Masked. Waiting.

She wears a deep crimson slip that clings to her curves, the fabric almost sheer in the low light. Her face is hidden behind a lace-trimmed black mask, but her lips—red, slightly parted, expectant—are fully visible.

I shut the door behind me.

The lock clicks.

Her breath catches. A subtle shift in her stance. Not nervous. Excited.

She doesn't speak.

That's the rule. No names. No words. Just pure, unfiltered need.

I move toward her, slow and controlled, my boots heavy against the wooden floor. I know what she wants. It's written in the way her body tenses, the way her hands curl at her sides, waiting for me to take control.

Tonight, I'm not here to be gentle.

I'm not here to whisper sweet lies.

I'm here to burn off the fire inside me.

And she's here for the exact same reason.

I don't wait.

The door slams shut behind me, the lock clicking into place. The second we're alone, I close the distance between us in two strides, grabbing her by the waist and pinning her against the wall.

She gasps, but it's not fear. It's anticipation.

Her body presses against mine, warm, eager, waiting. Her red slip is thin, barely covering anything, and I can feel every curve of her beneath it. The mask she wears hides her eyes, but I don't need to see them to know what she wants.

Rough. Hard. Unrelenting.

She wrote it down. She asked for this.

I'm going to give it to her.

My grip tightens on her hips as I yank her flush against me. She's soft in all the right places, her ass pressing back against my hardening cock.

"You know what you signed up for," I murmur against her ear. My voice is low, edged with something dark. Warning her. Daring her.

She tilts her head, exposing more of her throat. Silent permission.

I smirk. Good girl.

My fingers slide into her hair, gripping it tight, yanking her head back. A sharp gasp spills from her lips, her body shuddering. My mouth finds the curve of her neck, and I bite down—not so gently.

She moans.

That sound shoots straight through me, sending a fresh wave of need ripping through my veins.

I spin her around, my hands gripping her ass, kneading hard. She gasps, but her fingers curl around my shoulders, holding on. I slap her ass once, twice, the sound cracking through the air. Her body jerks, pressing against me, desperate for more.

She loves it. She fucking loves it.

"Already so needy," I murmur, my hands sliding up to cup her breasts. I squeeze them roughly, flicking my thumbs over her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress. She shudders, her lips parting.

I want to hear more. I want to hear her break.

Without warning, I pinch her nipple—hard.

She gasps sharply, her nails digging into my arms. My cock twitches at the sound.

I lean in, my mouth brushing over her ear. "You like that, don't you?"

She nods quickly, her breath coming faster now.

I drag my hands down, gripping the hem of her dress. In one motion, I yank it up, baring her ass completely.

She doesn't resist. She wants this.

Another slap. Harder this time.

She moans, her body jolting. I grab a handful of her ass, squeezing, kneading, owning.

"You're fucking perfect," I mutter, my voice thick with need.

Her breath stutters, and then—she presses herself back against me, her ass grinding against my cock.

I let out a low growl, my hands gripping her hips like a vice.

"Fuck," I breathe. "You really want it rough, don't you?"

She nods again, this time more frantic.

That's all I need.

I grab her thighs and lift her, slamming her against the wall. Her legs wrap around my waist, her body already trembling against mine.

I don't hold back.

I take. Hard. Rough. Deep.

And she fucking loves it.