Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER NINE

Ethan

I’m floating on a cloud of pure ecstasy.

The world around me is hazy, but my mouth is working overtime, savoring the sweetest taste I’ve ever known. God, her lips feel amazing. So moist and warm. With every swipe of her tongue, I can sense myself getting harder.

My hands wander to her breasts, and I squeeze, feeling their weight in my palms. The more I ask, the more this girl’s body gives me. Her touch wanders down to my cock. Damn, her fingers are soft and friendly, just how I like it. I want this woman.

The throbbing between my legs intensifies as she squeezes. I long to be inside her… now!

The woman is a mystery, a blurred form with a voice that reverberates in my head as speaks. She sounds familiar but far away, like a memory. “Ethan, you’re doing it all wrong. There’s no chemistry. It’s like you’re kissing your grandma. Where’s the sex appeal? I need less ‘background extra’ and more masculine star power.”

I pause, confused. That ball-breaking voice…

My eyes fly open. What the actual fuck?

My heart’s pounding faster than a reindeer on Red Bull. I blink rapidly, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. That was the most bizarro dream ever. I was kissing… Chase? But as I become more aware, I realize it isn’t all in my head.

Chase is in my bed, her head on my chest, and her hand… Hmm. How to say this delicately?

Her hand is wrapped around my dick.

We’re tangled together under my Santa SpongeBob sheets. I glance down at my crotch. Squidward’s giant nose keeps moving up and down. What the fuck is happening? She is completely zonked out, but her fingertips are doing some serious exploration. Her thumb is gently stroking my tip…

Stroke.

Stroke.

Squeeze.

God, that feels good. Really fucking good.

Shit. I gotta get out of this bed before I come on her hand. Chase would never let me live that down. I try to shift away, but her grip tightens like she means to finish the job.

She makes a deep, throaty sound. I’m so turned on. The expression on her face shows she’s immersed in a steamy fantasy.

Is she dreaming about me?

No way. Absolutely not. The girl doesn’t even want to be here, much less in my bed. She’s made it clear she thinks I’m a fucking idiot. As if this trip hasn’t been awkward enough, I know this would push my fake-girlfriend-with-accidental-benefits to her limit. I have to slip out without waking her.

She exhales a very sexy moan and wraps her leg over me, grinding her pelvis into my thigh. I groan under my breath, “Mother… of… fuck.” I feel precum dripping on her thumb as she glides it over my tip.

This isn’t working. I mean, yes, it’s technically working. I sense my North Pole becoming slicker by the second as she continues her unconscious adventure. But Chase isn’t aware of what she’s doing, and if I don’t make a move soon, I’m going to light up like a Christmas tree.

I whisper to the smiling faces of SpongeBob and Patrick on my sheets. “Alright gang, F is for friends, remember? So let’s do this together.”

One. Two. Three!

I give the sheet a mighty yank and tumble to the floor with a thud. I lie there, completely still, holding my breath. Another sultry sound drifts down from her, and I risk a quick glance.

Chase is sprawled out, facedown on the bed like a starfish. Her black pajama shorts are riding up to reveal a peek of purple lace panties.

I lick my lips at the sight. Shower. Stat.

I stumble into the bathroom, flipping on the water. The warm stream flows down my back as I grip my cock in one hand and prop the other against the tile. Visions of Chase fill my head. Her gorgeous face… those soft, kissable lips… the way her tits spilled into my palms… the undeniable heat between us when we kissed.

God, she’s hot. Sure, she’s awful, mean, evil, and… most importantly, she hates me. But so fucking hot.

And why is her bossy attitude such a turn-on?

I feel myself getting close, and I need my mind off you-know-who. Think of another woman, any woman!

I can’t.

Chase was stroking me moments ago. That’s all I can imagine as I seize myself harder. Within seconds, my balls stiffen, and my cock jolts as I come all over the shower tile. The pleasure ripples through me in one long, sweet release.

Oh fuck, I just jerked off to the enemy.”

***

“You two order whatever you want. It’s on us,” Dad announces, opening his menu.

“Dad, I’m 33, fully employed, and—” I protest, but Dad’s already waving me off like I’m a pesky mosquito.

“Can’t. It goes against Dad Code. Especially since you have your lady here.”

Chase seizes on the moment. “You’ll have to forgive Ethan. He’s not great at taking direction.”

“This guy has to listen to me. He knows if he doesn’t, I’ll dad-joke him into oblivion.”

“Fine,” I surrender. “But no dad-dancing.”

“No promises!”

We’re at the Wise Owl Grill, a quirky little joint in Naples, about twenty minutes from home. It’s our annual family pilgrimage to sample their special Christmas entrées, which are as authentically Latin as I am a convincing actor (if you ask Chase, that is).

The vibe? Imagine if a food truck worker got drunk in Cancun, on Christmas, and decided to settle down and open a restaurant. You’ve got traditional Mexican murals that look like they were painted by someone who once saw a postcard of Mexico, mixed with enough bamboo to build a tiki bar. Because nothing says “authentic Latin cuisine” quite like… bamboo?

There’s a small stage for live entertainment, which tonight promises to be… interesting.

Chase is eyeing the menu like it might bite her. Maybe it will. You never know in Florida.

“What do you recommend that won’t turn my stomach into a war zone?” she asks, her nose scrunching adorably. “The Enchiladas de Navidad or the Merry Mole Burrito?”

I lean in close, my lips barely grazing her ear. “Alcohol. Focus on alcohol. You’re gonna need it.”

Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Ethan Barrett, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I swear I’ll—”

“Can we get a pitcher of some Ho Ho Ho Rita’s over here?” Dad’s voice booms.

Mom squeals, “Yes! Let’s kick off this holiday shindig!”

Chase moves close, her voice low. “Spill it, pretty boy. What is happening?”

“Remember all those times I asked for the scripts the night before shooting? So I could practice the new scene changes? But you were always ‘fine-tuning it,’ leaving me to memorize everything at the last minute. This is payback for that, darlin’.”

She groans and rolls her eyes. Shit. She’s adorable when she’s pissed.

This morning, we posted our video challenge and smashed our 50,000-subscriber goal in just three hours; making our grand total 150K subs. Today’s assignment from the naughty or nice jar? Ethan chooses a secret dare for Chase.

It’s been driving her nuts all day, and I’ve been savoring every second of her squirming.

Except secretly, I’m the one squirming every time I recall her (almost) sleeping hand job this morning. The sensation of her smooth, soft fingers grabbing my— hold up. Not going there. Think unsexy thoughts.

Grandmas twerking. Airport diaper changes. The spectacle we’re about to see. Chase in those delicious purple lace undies— Dammit!

I casually shift to adjust my growing hardness under the table, praying no one notices how she’s getting to me.

“So, Ethan,” Mom chirps, yanking me from my increasingly reckless thoughts. “Are you gonna give us a hint about Chase’s dare?”

“Sorry, Mama. This woman luu-ves surprises,” I drawl. “Don’t want to ruin it for her.”

Mom turns to her. “Ooh, I bet it’s a doozy! Our Ethan’s always been a creative one. When he was five, he decided to ‘improve’ the neighbor’s nativity scene with dinosaurs. You should’ve seen baby Jesus being cradled in those triceratops horns. It was a hoot!”

Dad adds, “He’s an idea guy, just like me. I bet he’s giving you good ones for filming all the time.”

My ‘girlfriend’ forces a smile. “Oh, he’s a nonstop bundle of ideas. Can’t shut him up most days.”

From day one, Chase has had me on her shit list. I remember that second week of filming like it was yesterday. I’d just wrapped a take and was pretty damn proud of myself. But Chase? She responded with a silence that was deafening. Her disapproval filled the air, choking me with every breath. I was bracing myself to be fired, or maybe replaced by a cardboard cutout she’d consider “more believable.”

But then there’s this other side to her. This tiny nod she’d give after a scene, so subtle you’d miss it if you blinked. And fuck if it didn’t make my chest swell like I’d just won an Oscar. It’s been an emotional rollercoaster ever since, complete with loop-de-loops and unexpected drops.

She’s got this gift for making me feel like I’ve personally offended her by existing. It’s a special talent, really. And here’s the kicker—I actually care . Me, Mr. “Hit It and Quit It” Barrett, is as desperate for her approval as a puppy begging for treats.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to people loving me. It’s my superpower. I flash a smile, crack a joke, and ta-da! Instant adoration. But Chase is immune. Like trying to charm a brick wall—a very talented, incredibly intimidating brick wall.

And it’s driving me insane. Why? Because I respect the hell out of her. When I told her I wanted to direct, I wasn’t just blowing smoke up her perfectly sculpted ass. She’s the real deal, a genius behind the lens.

Next to her, I’m a kindergartener with a disposable camera.

I doubt she knows how closely I watch her on set. The way she frames each shot, how she draws performances out of even the most difficult actors (yours truly included). She’s got an intuition for the heart of a scene.

I want to tell her I genuinely admire her work. Explain how I’ve rewatched her films to the point of obsession, dissecting her techniques like a film school geek. I’ve got stacks of notebooks filled with observations from our shoots. But every time I open my mouth around her, something idiotic comes out.

Her opinion matters to me.

I wish it didn’t.

But it does. Fuck, it does.

I glance at her, but she avoids my eyes. She’s scanning the room, clearly plotting her escape.

Mom giggles as a pitcher of pale yellow liquid, tangled in a web of twinkling Christmas lights, lands on the table. “Sip, sip, hooray!” she chirps, raising her glass.

We clink glasses and drink. Chase’s expression twists like she’s just sucked on a lime dipped in chili sauce. “That’s an odd flavor.”

“Spiced eggnog margarita,” Dad explains. “It’s a real taste explosion!”

Chase spits the drink back into her glass. “So, where’s Nolan?” she asks.

“Oh, don’t you worry, hun,” Mom says with a wink. “He should be here any minute.”

The manager appears at my side. “They’re ready for your introduction,” he says discreetly.

“It’s go time, sunshine!” I say.

The way her face panics? It’s priceless. If I could capture that look of sheer terror—memeify and sell it—I’d be richer than Jeff Bezos on Prime Day.

I bound up to the little stage, grabbing the mic. “Good evening, beautiful people of Naples! I’m Ethan Barrett, your friendly neighborhood Christmas hunk.”

The small crowd erupts in cheers and applause. One woman shouts, “I love you, Ethan!”

“I love you too!” I reply automatically. It’s become a reflex at this point. “But tonight, it’s not about me. Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to jingle and mingle for the most festive, fun-filled event of the season. Our Holiday Drag Show features the glitter-tastic, tinsel-terrific, absolutely fa-la-la-bulous… KRINGLE KWEENS!”

Mom and Dad cheer from our table, “Woo! Kringle Kweens!”

The lights dim. The room transforms. It’s like a disco ball having intercourse with a Christmas tree. Three stunning drag queens sashay onto the stage, dressed as candy canes so sexy they’d make a dentist weep.

The queen in the red dress takes the mic, her voice sultry and playful. “I’m Candy Cane Couture, and honey, I’m about to make your holidays very merry indeed.”

The crowd roars.

“But first, we need a volunteer. Can the lovely Chase Pemberton please come to the stage?”

I dash over to her, whipping out a pair of light-up antlers and planting them firmly on her head.

“No, absolutely not. Hell fucking no.”

I pull out my phone and hit Go Live . “Hey Ethan Addicts! Here’s your special treat. My sugar plum is performing, tonight only, with The Kringle Kweens!”

The crowd cheers. Chase downs her eggnog margarita in one gulp—accepting defeat. She reluctantly allows me to guide her to the stage.

I tilt my head in her direction. “Don’t worry. I promise you’ll be safe. Nolan will take good care of you.”

Her eyes snap to the drag queen in front. “That’s NOLAN ?!”

Candy Cane Couture winks at Chase. “Don’t be shy, sweetie. I promise I won’t bite… unless you ask nicely.”

The thumping bass kicks in, vibrating the tacky decorations on the walls. Chase stands on stage, stiff as a board, while Nolan-as-Candy leads her through a series of increasingly ridiculous dance moves. She’s like a mannequin trying to do the Macarena —always one step behind.

“Come on, sugar!” Candy coos. “Shake your snow globes like they’re full of glitter!”

I’m laughing so hard I can’t hold the phone steady. Chase’s dancing is a crime against rhythm. I give her credit, though. She’s flailing those long legs like she’s a soulless Rockette robot, with grim determination on her face that’s usually reserved for yelling “CUT!” on set.

And then, as if by some sort of Christmas miracle, it happens. She starts to smile. Not her usual “I’m imagining your slow, painful death” smile, but a real, honest-to-God grin. Her whole face lights up.

For a moment, I forget I’m filming. I’m lost in this version of her—letting loose and having a blast. She can’t dance for shit, but God, it’s endearing watching her try.

As the song reaches its climax, Chase attempts a spin that sends her careening toward the Christmas tree. Nolan catches her just in time, dipping her low as the crowd goes wild.

She catches my eye. I smile at her, and—

Time stops.

Suspended in this infinite heartbeat, I take in every detail. Her cheeks are flushed—her eyes sparkle with laughter—her hair is a glorious mess.

It’s a part of her I’ve never witnessed.

I’m struck with the urge to make her smile like that again.

She’s never been more gorgeous.