Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Chase

Booming thunder rattles the windows. My eyes fly open. Disoriented, I blink at the unfamiliar room. Why am I naked?

Oh no.

I bolt upright. My heart pounds as I recognize the room. Ethan’s bedroom. Ethan’s bed . Ethan’s… not here.

Chase, you stupid girl.

I scramble out of the SpongeBob sheets. Where are my clothes? I frantically look for my pajamas, but they’re nowhere. I snatch up a discarded T-shirt from the floor—definitely Ethan’s—and yank it over my head. His familiar, earthy scent goes straight to my core, making it all tingly as memories of last night come flooding in, raw and unfiltered.

What the hell was that between us?

His touch was like a wildfire. Ethan’s hands on my skin, his lips discovering the secrets of my body. Everything was perfect. The way he filled me—that slow, exquisite build of pleasure—making my nerve endings sing. And after the build-up, I shattered in his arms. Never had I felt so desired, so utterly and passionately consumed.

Even now, my body craves his touch.

Goddammit! I know better than to let an actor in, to give them power over me. It’s Directing 101. When the project wraps, they move on, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your heart. But yesterday, with Ethan, I lowered my defenses. One mind-blowing encounter, and I’ve jeopardized everything, giving him parts of me I never intended to share.

And where is Ethan now? Not the fuck here. Why would he be? To him, I’m just another conquest, nothing more. He’s probably hiding out at his mom’s store to avoid the awkward morning-after conversation.

I have to get out of here before I screw things up even more. I should check into a hotel. Shit. Why does a part of me want to stay? To see how this plays out? No! I can’t risk letting my guard down with Ethan any more than I already have.

KRA-KOWW!

I jump at the crack of thunder. At the same moment, the bedroom door swings open.

Ethan stands there in boxers and a T-shirt, hair tousled, holding a tray of food. My stomach does a little happy dance, and it’s not because I’m craving breakfast.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

“Yeah,” I croak. “The storm.”

He crosses to the bed, setting down the tray. “I thought you might be hungry, ya know, after our evening together. I know I am.”

Is he seriously blushing right now?

“My specialty—key lime pancakes with fresh-squeezed orange juice. And coffee, but I don’t know how you like it, so I brought sugar and cream just in case.”

Oh hell. He made me breakfast? This is not good.

“Ethan, about last night,” I begin, steeling myself for the let’s pretend this never happened speech.

But he cuts me off, reaching out to gently cradle my face in his hand. His touch is so tender that it makes my chest ache.

“How about we stay in this moment a little while longer? Let’s just put a time-out on that conversation for now,” he suggests, his voice smooth and inviting. “We’ve got the house to ourselves today.”

“Everyone’s gone?”

“Yup. At work.” His grin widens. “We can enjoy the day together. Push reality back a bit.”

A break—

From responsibility...

From consequences...

From the voice in my head screaming, this is a colossal mistake.

I grasp at the only lifeline I can think of. “We can’t. What about the subscriber challenge for today?”

Ethan responds by holding up his phone to the rain-lashed window. The camera clicks, and he starts dictating, “It’s stormy outside, so here’s the deal: I dare you to gift a Cherish Channel subscription to a friend. If we hit 100,000 new subs today, we’ll dance in the thunderstorm. Let’s make it happen! #CherishChallenge.”

He taps the screen. “Posted! Now, how about you take a few bites and join me in the shower?”

“Are you telling me what to do?”

Ethan responds by standing up and peeling off his shirt. Oh, sweet Lord have mercy.

“Not yet,” he says, his voice low and husky.

I watch him stride to the bathroom, my gaze drinking in every inch of his stupidly perfect body as if I’m dying of thirst. He pivots, flashing that cocky smirk that has me battling the urge to kiss him and then promptly knee him in the junk. His thumbs hook into the waistband of his boxers, and suddenly they’re gone. He stands there, bare-assed and beautiful, the light behind him outlining his form like some kind of asshole angel.

His hard dick demands attention.

Ethan turns on the water and steps into the shower, leaving the door open.

He’s got this “come hither” act down, that’s for sure. I see why he’s banged half of Hollywood—this routine works. But it’s not supposed to work on me. Sure, breakfast was sweet. And yeah, that shower invite is tempting as hell…

But no. I’m too fucking smart for this.

Aren’t I?

Once is like, Oopsies, my bad, your dick just slipped right in there. But twice? That’s on me.

I shove a few pancake bites in my mouth, trying to ignore how flavorful they taste. The fluffy texture is exquisite with the zing of the lime. Abs like that and he can cook?

My stomach growls, reminding me just how hungry I am after last night’s… activities. I chug the orange juice, feeling the sugar rush sing through my veins.

A deep groan echoes from the bathroom, and either my imagination or my memories run wild. Ethan’s in there—naked and dripping, water cascading down his chiseled chest. He’s stripped down and waiting, like a dirty gift that’s already been opened.

You know what? Fuck it. Let’s see what happens.

My heart races. This feels so reckless. So daring. So wrong, but in the most delicious way possible. I stumble toward the bathroom, stripping off the borrowed shirt as I go.

I enter the steam-filled room with a rolling inferno of emotions. My internal firestorm is far outweighing the actual temperature of the misty warmth. With a deep breath, I pull back the shower curtain and step inside.

Ethan’s reaction to my naked body sends a thrill straight through me. Before I can say a word, he comes to me, his lips crashing against mine in a sizzling, electrifying kiss.

Oh God. The world melts away. All I feel is the exquisite sensation of his mouth. Heads tilting. Lips on lips. Tongues sucking and savoring every sweet second. I’m lightheaded with lust.

Ethan’s powerful arm snakes around my waist, effortlessly pulling me flush against him. He skillfully grinds his thick erection against me, causing all attention to go to my center. I crave the way this man makes me feel.

My clit throbs, desperate for the same mind-blowing ecstasy he gave me less than twenty-four hours ago. Hungry for more, I take control. My hands slide around to grab his ass—and oh damn, what a fine ass it is. Firm and sculpted. I’m greedy for it. I squeeze harder, feeling his cock pulse against my folds.

“Not this time, sweetheart. It’s my turn to be in charge,” he demands, breaking our kiss.

I hear the dominance in his voice, and… I don’t hate it.

The realization hits me like a thunderbolt. I’ve spent a lifetime keeping everyone at a safe distance—never letting anyone behind my carefully built walls. Am I actually ready to let someone in? And not just someone. Ethan. The man who’s seen me at my most demanding and difficult.

How can he look at me like I’m something precious?

This is definitely new territory for me. Instead of fighting for control, I find myself surrendering to the safety I feel in his arms.

Ethan presses my back against the cool tile. His searing lips glide like embers down my neck and along my collarbone, lingering on my breasts. He hungrily sucks my nipple into his mouth.

“Think you’re a director now?” I manage to gasp out.

Ethan’s lips curl into a wicked smile . “You’ll like me in charge. You’re already begging for my touch.”

I swallow hard, fighting the temptation to press myself against him. “Begging? You must be high. I don’t beg, I command.”

“Your nipples betray you. You want this as badly as I do. Maybe more.”

“It’s biological. Don’t read too much into it. I’m just curious how far you’ll go to convince me.”

He drops to his knees, and I gasp as he exhales a warm breath onto my aching center. The shower water pelts against his back, creating a shield that protects my sensitive clit from the relentless spray.

“Your mouth can deny it, but your body doesn’t lie. Come on, baby. Let me see how much you’re dripping for me.”

His strong hands spread my legs, and then—oh fuck—his tongue drags slowly across my clit. My back arches compulsively off the steamy bathroom tiles.

“Oh my God! Ethan, yes,” I pant, nodding frantically.

“Lift up,” he demands, and I comply instinctively, tilting my hips and offering all of me to his giving mouth.

Ethan gently hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, and I brace myself against the slick shower wall. I try to stay upright as his tongue goes to work, but dizzying waves of euphoria wash over me. Each steady stroke brings me higher, closer to the edge of blissful oblivion.

“I’m addicted to your pussy. You taste like heaven and hell all wrapped into one.”

His words make me crumble. Little earthquakes rock my core. I’m trembling, torn between the urge to let go and the need to make this last forever. I’ve been wound too tight for too long. It feels so good. The only thing I can do is chase this orgasm rising inside of me like a tide.

I'm pulsing with life.

Like I’ve just taken the first full breath of fresh air after living in a work cave for years.

Ethan’s breathing grows ragged, and I glance down. He’s stroking himself as he drives me to my release. I’m so turned on by it. I moan my approval, cueing him to press his mouth harder against me. His tongue swishes my clit with such force that my fingers claw into his hair.

Hottest. Experience. Ever.

“Yes, Ethan yes! I’m… I’m…” I can’t get the words out before my thighs start to tremble. White heat flashes behind my eyes, and my entire body convulses as I come.

Fast. Hard. On Ethan’s face.

My muscles, stomach, and limbs quake with the pleasure that ripples through my body.

Too soon, Ethan’s mouth releases me. He groans loudly as he comes. His heavy breathing lightly tickles my clit before he rests his head against my hip. We’re both panting, spent and sated.

So much for keeping my distance.

***

“You know this is not a competition, right? Don’t take it so seriously,” Ethan says as he watches me furiously pipe frosting onto a Christmas cookie.

“Everything is a competition, especially Christmas.”

We’re in the kitchen, surrounded by the warm scent of freshly baked cookies, and Ethan is all smiles and laughter. His casual demeanor is unsettling, considering that less than an hour ago, he was feasting on me—drawing out an orgasm so intense that I’m still seeing stars.

“Oh wow, that is… I’m just gonna say it. It’s terrible,” Ethan quips, eyeing my frosted cookie critically. “What’s that even supposed to be?”

“It’s a stocking full of presents, obviously.”

“It looks like a penis. And not a good one—all crooked and half-hard.”

“No, it’s not!” I protest, though now that he’s said it, I can’t unsee the phallic shape.

“The Cherish Channel would not approve,” Ethan jokes, waggling his eyebrows.

I burst out laughing. "No, they would not. I can save it. I'll add a little green frosting and look! A souvenir.”

“Of what?”

“Your limp fish dick,” I say with a smirk, licking frosting from my finger.

“You seemed pretty content with my mighty sea snake last night,” he says, smiling, but then his eyes darken and smolder with desire.

An awkward silence falls between us. Why does he have to be so temping? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He’s an actor, playing a role. None of this is genuine. It’s his game, a well-practiced charm offensive that he’s mastered for the camera and countless women before me.

I can’t let myself fall for it.

I look away and focus on my cookie. “You’re overestimating the impact of your flaccid jellyfish. I barely felt a sting.”

“Sweetheart, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Ethan says with a chuckle, then changes the subject. “Talk to me, tell me something, anything. How do you celebrate the holidays?”

I tense up. “Normal stuff.”

“Come on, give me more than that. Growing up, did you leave milk and cookies for Santa? I bet you bossed your parents around like a mini director to make sure they built your Barbie Dreamhouse to perfection.”

“We didn’t do the whole Santa thing.”

“Okay, no Santa. But how about the tree? I can totally picture a little Chase managing the ornament placement.”

“Can we just focus on the cookies?” I cut him off, my tone harsher than I intended.

Ethan’s face falls slightly.

I hate that I notice.

I hate that I care.

“Hey, I’m not trying to pry,” he says softly, his eyes searching mine. “I just… I want to learn more about you, Chase. There’s so much I don’t know.”

I sigh, my shoulders sagging under the weight of his honesty. I get that we’re stuck together till Christmas, but what’s his angle here? Why the sudden interest?

“Can we not… Please?” I beg.

I don’t do backstory. I don’t do vulnerability. And I sure as hell don’t spill my tragic childhood over dick-shaped sugar cookies.

In my line of work, I’ve learned to keep my guard up and my emotions in check. I’ve earned my title as the Ice Queen of Romance. I can make America swoon with my movies, but that doesn’t mean I’m buying into the whole “love conquers all” nonsense.

Because here’s the thing: Love isn’t always pretty. It’s seldom made of fairy tales and happily ever afters. I’ve seen firsthand what “epic love” can do to a person. How it can take a vibrant, charming man like my dad and reduce him to a shell of his former self, numbing his sorrows with whiskey and neglecting his only daughter.

My parents’ love story was the stuff of movies—a chance meeting at a laundromat, a whirlwind courtship, a picture-perfect life. But when my mom died, she took a piece of my dad with her. And I was left with a man who could barely remember to keep the lights on, let alone make sure there were presents under the tree on Christmas morning.

Love is just another way to lose yourself. I’ve seen the damage it does, watching my father drown in a love that left him empty. Some people might call it tragic. I see it as a warning.

Ethan’s eyes are on me, warm and knowing in a way that makes my skin prickle. I hate it. His presence is a reminder of everything I’m trying not to feel.

For a while, we frost cookies in silence. The only sounds are spatulas scraping against bowls and the occasional clink of a sprinkle shaker.

“You know, it’s kind of ironic,” Ethan says. “You love the idea of Christmas in your movies, but you clearly hate Christmas.”

The words sting. My hands freeze mid-frost, the cookie suddenly blurs in front of me. “I don’t hate Christmas.” I admit too honestly. “My dad wasn’t really... great at it. He... wasn’t around much. Let’s just say he preferred a liquid dinner to family dinner.”

I force myself to keep frosting, to focus on the mindless activity. Anything to avoid looking at him.

“That sounds... tough.”

There’s no pity in his voice—just understanding. And that’s way worse. Pity I can handle. Sympathy I can shut down. But genuine concern? That threatens to split me wide open.

“It’s not a big deal. I had the Cherish Channel.” A real smile tugs at my lips, surprising me. “Every December, I’d curl up on the couch with store-bought sugar cookies and watch their holiday marathon. Twenty-four hours of perfect families, magical moments, and guaranteed happy endings.”

“And now you create that magic for others.” It’s not a question.

How does he do that? How does he cut straight through my bullshit to the truth I’ve buried under years of careful control?

“Someone’s gotta do it,” I say, shrugging casually. “And I’m pretty good at making people believe in the fantasy, even if it’s just for ninety minutes.”

“Is that all it is to you? A fantasy?”

He moves closer, his arm brushing mine, and electricity shoots through my body. The air between us feels heavy with everything I’m terrified to want.

I open my mouth to respond, when—

DING!

Our phones chime simultaneously, and I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption.

“Looks like we hit our daily subscriber goal,” I say, checking the app.

“Chase, babe! I’m gonna need more excitement than that. We crossed five hundred thousand. We’re halfway there! Woo!”

Ethan pulls me in tight, peppering my face with fast kisses that make me laugh. Then he stops, a playful smile on his face. “You know what that means? Time to get wet again.”

***

The sky’s dumping buckets. Gusts of wind slap us with misty high-fives. The ground beneath us? It’s a soggy, squishy mess. We’re huddled under the house stilts, our own little hideout in this crapstorm. Not my idea of fun.

“How about you dance in the rain?” I say. “And I’ll film it.”

Ethan grins, already pulling out his phone. “You’re not afraid of a little water, are you?”

“Ethan, no, wait, let’s talk about this.”

I try to grab the phone from him, but it’s too late. He’s already hit the Go Live button.

“In Florida, it doesn’t snow for Christmas, but we have something better. We call it the Holiday Downpour,” Ethan declares with a grin. “Let’s all dance like our hearts are open and anything is possible.”

With that, he breaks into a cheesy rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” running into the monsoon as he livestreams.

“You look ridiculous!” I yell after him, trying not to laugh.

He rushes to me, takes my hand, and tugs me into the spray. A surprised squeal escapes me as the cold water hits. Ethan laughs, continuing to sing, and despite my reservations, I end up singing along.

“Look, she does know the words!” Ethan crows triumphantly.

Now we’re both dancing like idiots in the water. I can’t stop smiling.

Me. Him. Us.

The moment is absurd. I embrace it.

I belt out the lyrics obnoxiously, even louder than Ethan. Then I twirl, letting the rain kiss my cheeks, and something magical happens. A weight lifts from my shoulders and a deep tension within me releases. I’m somehow being washed clean by the Florida showers.

“We love you, Ethan Addicts! We hope you’re having just as much fun for the holidays,” Ethan says to the camera, wrapping up the livestream. “See you tomorrow.”

“What are you doing? The fans—”

“They’ve seen enough. This moment’s just for us,” Ethan says.

I don’t question his sincerity. Instead, I find myself yielding... trusting… free-falling. Because this isn’t the suave performer I’ve directed in countless scenes. This is Ethan, raw and real, showing me what’s behind the charm and easy smiles. His heart is in every spontaneous gesture, every vulnerable look. And for the first time, I’m not calling “cut” to stop myself from feeling too much.

He captures my wrist, and we start to dance. The cold barely registers, not with his arm wrapped around me, his touch searing through my wet shirt. I shift closer, drawn to him instinctively, my heart hammering louder than the storm.

We fall into an easy rhythm, and with every sway, every shared breath, the space between us crackles with invisible electricity. The spray, once an intruder, now feels like a cocoon, wrapping us in a world of our own making. Two people slow dancing in a downpour.

Ethan tilts my face to his, and then he kisses me so hard it nearly lifts me off the ground. I kiss him right back. The sensation vibrates through my whole body, electrifying every nerve ending. My hands fist in his shirt then slide under it, desperate for skin-on-skin contact.

His steady palms claim my hips, lifting me like I’m weightless. I wrap my legs around him possessively, and he transports me out of the rain—to our intimate sanctuary under the house. He pins me to one of the stilts. I yank off my sopping wet shirt and carelessly throw it to the ground.

Somehow, his mouth is already on my jaw, making his way to my ear. I’ve got one arm around his shoulders for balance, the other tugging at his shirt. It needs to come off… now. His shirt joins mine on the ground, landing in a puddle with a wet splat.

Our skin slides against each other, slick with precipitation and desire. Ethan shifts his hips, pressing me harder against the house stilt. I can feel the unmistakable firmness of his cock, hard and insistent against me, and I arch into him, craving more.

I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. But I can’t seem to keep this from happening.