Page 38 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

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 whateveryou 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!”

---