Mr. Hat Trick

by Ainsley Booth

  That’s the Brewster way.

  I would have agreed with him a few months ago, but things have changed.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m tangled up with anyone,” I counter. “I have a friend. His name is Tate. We have mutual friends, and once—once—I appeared on his Instagram page with him. It’s a silly, simple story. I am not going to be publicly dating him or anything like that.”

  A pang pulls tight in my chest as I say that. That’s not fair to Tate, but it’s the reality of my life.

  “We sorted all of that out once. It will be hard to do that again, and salvage your reputation.” He frowns at me, as if I don’t already know that.

  “That was a long time ago,” I say softly, trying not to get emotional. “And I was active in my own career rehabilitation, if you’ll recall. I have no desire to be in the public eye.”

  “It’s not good for your long term aspirations.”

  I don’t know about that. Do people care if university professors or private investors have hockey player boyfriends? I know the shareholders of Brewster Industries don’t like it, but—

  Right.

  I’ve been putting this off for too long.

  “Dad,” I say, standing up. I resist the urge to take a big swig of wine, lest he think I’m only saying this because I’m tipsy. “I don’t ever want to be the CEO of Brewster Industries. I don’t want to move back here, not in the near future, and not ever. I am grateful for every opportunity you and Mom have ever given me, but my future is my own.”

  He laughs.

  I lay my heart out there, and he laughs.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m sure you think you are, young—”

  “No. I’m twenty-seven years old. I am not a young lady. I’m not even a lady. I’m screwing a hockey player.” I wave my glass in the air. Damn, I might be a little tipsy. “And you know what? It’s a secret. It’s going to stay a secret, and that’s kind of stupid, really, because there’s no reason for it, except for the repressed, socially restrictive rules you’ve taught me. So… there. I’m serious, and we’re done here. It’s Christmas morning and we need to go pretend crepes are pancakes, so let’s pretend this just didn’t happen. You can call me tomorrow and tell me then how wrong I am.”

  He doesn’t follow me, so instead of going straight to the kitchen, I detour upstairs to call Tate. He answers on the first ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Can you talk right now?”

  “For sure. Give me two secs—Okay, I’m alone now. What’s wrong?”

  My face crumples, but I don’t cry. Not necessary. I twist my expression until it’s more of a grimace, and I sigh. “I had another go with my father. I may have told him I’m screwing you.”

  “Wow. That’s a level of sharing I didn’t think happened in the Brewster house.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah.” I wince. “I may have crossed the line into total bitch.”

  “He probably deserved it.”

  “He definitely did. But I still regret how I handled it.”

  “Bitches get shit done and have healthy boundaries.”

  I close my eyes and drag in a deep breath. “Right. I know that.”

  “But you aren’t a bitch, Sash. You’re tough. You’re strong. And you’re amazing. I know you know that.”

  I laugh under my breath. “We all know there’s nothing wrong with my ego.”

  “But all egos have soft spots.”

  And my father knows exactly where to poke. “Mm-hmm. So, anyway, I don’t know if I’ll have the plane to come home.”

  He laughs gently. “That’s okay. Do you want me to come get you?”

  “It’s a four-hour drive, and it’s snowing out.”

  “I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  I rub my chest. “I know. No, I’ll try to book a commercial flight, it’s fine. I have to go and choke down crepes now.”

  “Update me as soon as you can.”

  “I will.”

  I take a few deep breaths, check my makeup in the mirror, and head back downstairs.

  My father is waiting in the hallway for me. I give him a guarded look.

  “That was quite the outburst,” he says, rushing to continue before I can say anything snippy in response. “But I hear you. All except for the bit about the hockey player. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “Okay.”

  “We only want what’s best for you, Sasha.”

  And having me drunkenly flashing the media with my bright orange panties is not it. Having a famous boyfriend cop a feel at the same time was the icing on the inappropriate cake. “We have different ideas of what that is. But I think we agree on what isn’t best for me.”

  He gives me a grim smile. Great. Now we’re both remembering my orange panties. This is the worst Christmas ever.

  28

  Tate

  The next update I get from Sasha is a text saying she’s leaving for the airport and all is “relatively fine.” Whatever that means.

  I give my parents one last tight squeeze and promise my mom I’ll do my best to eat all the leftovers. “Whatever I don’t get through, I’ll put in the freezer.”

  “I can come back up in a few days…”

  “Nah, it’s fine.” My parents live on a farm closer to Kingston, and I don’t need my mom making an hour-plus drive to clean out my fridge.

  “I guess you’ll be happy to have the place to yourself for a day of peace and quiet.” She pats me on the arm as my father holds out her coat.

  I have zero plans for Sasha to be quiet. Or peaceful. “Yeah, for sure.”

  As soon as they leave, I have a shower and shave my balls, because nothing says Merry Christmas like smooth privates. Then I put her presents under the tree and put the fireplace channel on my television.

  I’ve just heated up some apple cider on the stove when I hear her car pull into my driveway.

  When I open the door, she’s standing in front of me with a bag spilling over with wrapped presents in her arms and a tired, relieved smile on her face.

  “I’ll take those,” I tell her as I grab the bag. “And kiss this.” I taste her mouth, warm and soft, as she blindly shoves the door shut behind her.

  “Merry Christmas,” she murmurs against my lips.

  “The merriest.”

  “I got you presents.”

  “We can unwrap them after I unwrap you.” I haul her backwards, kissing her non-stop as I dump the bags on the couch, her coat on a chair, and settle her in my lap in another chair. “You’re all dressed up,” I say as I unbutton her blouse.

  “It’s a long story.” She smooths her hand over my sweater before I weave my fingers into her hair and bring our mouths together again.

  More kissing.

  So good to have her in my arms again. It’s a weird and wonderful feeling, to miss someone like this. The pure relief when they’re back in your arms. It’s not sappy. It’s…pure. Basic.

  Also, fucking hot. Her skin is warm and soft under her silk top, and her fancy dress pants cup her ass in a way that makes my dick pulse in anticipation.

  Maybe for Christmas, I’ll take her there.

  She breaks away from my mouth and twists her head towards the kitchen. “Is that apple cider?”

  I’m thinking how amazing anal sex would be, and she’s hooked on my holiday festive touches.

  Down boy, you’ll wait your turn like a good cock.

  “You want some?”

  She grins and gives me a final, lip-smacking kiss. “Yes, please. It’s cold out there.”

  “Come on.”

  She does up one button, but doesn’t bother to fix her hair, and after I hand her a steaming mug of cider, I give her a long, lingering look of appreciation.

  “What?”

  “I like you all mussed up like this.”

  She smirks. “You can’t wait to muss me up further, can you?”

  “You don’t even w
ant to know what I’m thinking right now.”

  Her eyes flash dark. “Maybe I do.”

  I lean back against the counter. “I was thinking we should do something new today. Something…special.”

  “If you want me to tie you up, just say the word.” She winks, and somehow makes it look innocent.

  “Right back at you, tiger.”

  She purses her lips. “Mmm. Tempting.”

  I just grin. If she really wants to know, she can ask again. She doesn’t. She sips her cider and watches me over the rim of her mug.

  “I’m not telling you.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkle.

  I laugh out loud. “Are you hungry?”

  Her gaze drops to my dick.

  Fuck. Me. “Finish your cider, and I’ll give you your first present.”

  “Is it…” She takes one last delicate sip of cider, then sets her mug down. “Something hard?”

  “I’ve missed you too, Sasha. Upstairs.”

  She spins around and runs, laughing as she climbs the stairs. “I don’t know where your room is!”

  “Then I’ll probably catch you,” I growl as I chase her. “Turn right.”

  She sprints into the master bedroom and leaps onto my bed. I catch her ankle in the air, and she tumbles sideways. I unzip her boot and toss it over my shoulder. She gets the other one off, then I’m on top of her.

  I push her into the bed. Hold her down.

  Hold her, period, my fingers wrapping around her wrists. Tight enough to lay a claim. It’s Christmas Fucking Day and we’ve done our family duty. Now it’s just us for the next twenty-four hours, and she’s all mine.

  Damn straight I’m holding on tight.

  This is precious.

  Sasha arches beneath me, rubbing her body against mine. “What were you thinking?” she whispers. “Tell me.”

  Precious, and dirty. “I’d rather show you.”

  Her eyes go glassy and unfocused as she looks up at me and nods. Zing. Like an electric jolt to my inner depraved jerk, her expression shifts me from emo to ego in a split-second.

  From downstairs, the Christmas soundtrack filters up to us. The cheesy songs have ended, and we’re into Johnny Reid now with some festive swagger.

  I do exactly as I promised, and unwrap her. First her blouse, then her pants. I take my time teasing her skin around the edges of her push-up bra and minuscule panties, then those too are peeled away.

  I roll her over and smack her pert, perfect bottom as I climb off the bed and discard my sweater, t-shirt, and jeans. The whole time, she watches me, her cheek pressed against my blanket, her body naked and stretched out across my bed.

  I open the side drawer and grab a condom.

  And lube.

  Her eyes go wide, and I grin.

  Except this is Sasha, and there’s no upper hand to be had with her.

  Without breaking the lock her gaze has on mine, she arches her back and, graceful as a wild cat, pushes up onto her knees.

  My mouth drops open, and she grins.

  Chuckling under my breath, I climb onto the bed. I lean over her and kiss her mouth before nipping at her ear. “Ready for more than a finger, tiger?”

  “I can’t wait,” she breathes. “Merry Christmas.”

  That’s the understatement of the year.

  I take my time kissing and biting down her spine. By the time I get to her ass, she’s rocking against me. I grab a good handful of her right cheek and bite her. The gasp followed by a desperate moan is music to my ears.

  Maybe I’ve got a touch of sadism in me after all.

  But then I ruin that theory by sucking and licking her flesh until she’s warm and rosy all over, and that feels even better.

  She tenses when I pop the bottle of lube open, but I warm the gel on my fingers before I circle it around her adorable little hole. I’m going to be so good to her.

  “Show me how tight you can clench,” I murmur, and she groans as she twists her head around to look at me.

  “No.”

  I grin. “Come on. I love your ass.”

  “I know. But we’re not talking about how tight I can—Ah!” I love that look of surprise on her face as I slide my finger in to the first knuckle. Her muscles flutter around the intrusion, and my cock lifts into the air, eager to feel the grip my finger is currently enjoying. “Jerk,” she mutters, catching her breath.

  “Show me again.”

  “Just do it.”

  “That is not how this is going to go down. What happened to the girl who pushed her ass in the air?” I rock my hand gently, nudging up against the second ring of muscles inside her body.

  She sighs and presses up. Her breathing slides into an erotic groan as I penetrate her deeper, and I hold still, waiting for her body to adjust.

  Then I add more lube.

  As I ease a second finger into her ass, the sounds she makes are perfectly unholy. I love them.

  I fuck her with my hand, slowly stretching her, until she’s mumbling for me to just do it already. I rip open the condom packet and roll the thin, lubed-up latex over my straining cock.

  I murmur sweet nothings as I rub the thick, hard head of my dick against her entrance. This time, I don’t need to tell her to tighten up—and when her body relaxes, as it inevitably must, I push in.

  Just the tip, just enough to stretch her wide.

  I settle my hands on her hips and hold on tight as she whines and twists and pushes back. When she sighs and drops her head, I ease in another inch.

  Never in my life has my cock been gripped this tight.

  “We were supposed to open presents first,” I groan as I sink slowly into her amazing heat.

  “Unnn…”

  I ease back, pulling half of my cock out of her body before pushing in again. An easy start to her first ass fucking. Another claim on her body.

  “I put on Christmas music.” We can still hear it. Faint strains a surreal soundtrack to heavy breathing and slapping flesh.

  “Cider…” she breathes. “So good.”

  “And this?”

  “Ah…”

  “Only okay?” I grin as she moans.

  “So good too.”

  I slap her hip. “That’s my girl. Fuck back against me. Take my dick in your ass.”

  “Tate!”

  I laugh. “Too much?”

  “Fuck me harder.”

  Deep inside her, my cock flexes at the glorious request. “Your wish is my command. Touch your clit. Get yourself off. If you come for me, I’ll have a big load—”

  She bursts out laughing, and holy shit, that feels good on my dick.

  “You like that? I’ve got knock knock jokes, too.” I bottom out inside her, and her fingers graze my nuts as she starts to stroke her pussy. “Ah, shit, Sasha. I can feel how wet you are. Come on, baby. Pinch your clit. Just like that. Oh, that’s it. I can feel that. You like that, don’t you? My cock buried in your ass, you rubbing your sweet little pussy, too.”

  She climaxes with a shattering scream, and I follow her into that bliss, my dirty words dying on my tongue as pure, hot pleasure bolts up my cock, pulling my balls with it.

  Merry. Fucking. Christmas.

  Some time later, after a slow, sudsy shower where I clean her up everywhere, especially where she’s sensitive and sore, we get dressed and head downstairs.

  I wear my favourite red flannel PJ pants. She wears the matching flannel top and a pair of my wool socks.

  “Quite the change from what I wore this morning,” she says, laughing as she looks down at herself.

  “You’ve never been more beautiful to me,” I promise. “Now let me feed you and we can finally exchange our presents.”

  “What are we having for dinner?”

  I wrap my arms around her and gesture to the fridge in front of us. “Whatever your little heart desires.”

  There’s a turkey breast, stuffing, cranberry sauce, roast potatoes, roast beef and gravy, four different containers of steam
ed vegetables, and my mother’s famous aspic.

  “Is that jello? With…vegetables in it?”

  “And tomato juice, too. It’s got some heat to it.”

  “That’s vaguely terrifying.” But it’s the first container she pulls out of the fridge. “Is this what you had last night?”

  “We had the beef last night. The turkey my mother would have cooked earlier this week. She brought me the breast, and probably kept the rest of the bird at home for them to eat when they got back.”

  “Tell me about your parents,” she says as she opens the stuffing container and takes a taste with her fingers.

  I catch her hand and lick the crumbs off. “They’re pretty good people. Tell me about yours.”

  “They’re pretty good people with some serious asterisks after that statement.”

  “Yours sound more interesting.”

  She wrinkles her nose and hands me the cranberry sauce. “Put this on the counter.”

  We plate up food, nuking the hot stuff before adding the aspic and cranberry sauce. Then we put everything back in the fridge and take our plates to my table.

  In between slow, appreciative bites, Sasha tells me about her parents. How her father turned his father’s modest tool-and-die shop into an international automotive supplier. How her mother loves Toronto society, and her husband, and her children, maybe in that order, but Sasha hopes not.

  Then she falls silent.

  I start to tell her about my parents. How my father moved here from Sweden as a teenager to play hockey, but then he fell in love with my mother, and chose her over a shaky career on the edges of the NHL. How they’re my biggest cheerleaders, and—

  “My parents aren’t happy about you.” She interjects it almost calmly, but there’s a tremor in her voice.

  I fall silent. She doesn’t say anything, so I finally shrug. “Okay.” I can handle some parental concern.

  “They know me well, and my mother is an Instagram freak. She saw your post from New York and has been stewing on it ever since. She’s convinced I’m going to fall into old, bad habits with you.”

  Only new bad habits here, and they’re only bad in the most prudish of terms. I frown. “Is this about your aversion to the media and publicly dating?”

  She shifts nervously in her chair. “Yes. Maybe. Yes.”