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“Twenty-three.” Ken kept his eyes on the channel guide on his big screen TV. “Have you seen About a Boy? It’s finally on HBO.”
I shook my head. Both in response to his question and in disbelief that he was so young to be so damn grown.
“You haven’t? It’s so fucking good.” Ken selected the movie and placed the remote on the coffee table. “Hugh Grant’s my favorite actor.”
I snorted.
“What?” Ken gave me the side-eye.
“Hugh Grant isn’t anybody’s favorite actor.”
Ken laughed and turned to face me, doing a worse job at hiding his smile than usual. “I thought that, too, until, one day, I realized I liked every movie Hugh Grant has ever been in. Even Small Time Crooks, and I fucking hate Woody Allen. So, I was like, Holy shit. I think Hugh Grant’s my favorite actor.”
Ken’s smile was infectious.
“You’re telling me you liked Bridget Jones’s Diary?” I teased.
“Yep.”
“Two Weeks Notice?”
Ken nodded.
“Notting Hill?”
“Are you kidding? Notting Hill is the best one. We’re watching it after this. I mean”—Ken’s eyes darted around the room as he cleared his throat—“if you want to.”
I smiled, basking in the unexpected cuteness that was Ken Easton. Desperate to soothe his sudden nerves and charmed by his adorable love of British romantic comedies, I leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on his chiseled mouth. I didn’t think about it. I just…did it.
And regretted it immediately.
The moment our lips touched, Ken froze—along with the very breath in my lungs as I waited an uncomfortable amount of time for him to do something.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi…
But Ken just sat there, suspended in time, unblinking, hardly breathing, with my lips pressed against his closed, slightly pursed mouth.
Releasing him from the awkwardness of that kiss with a loud smack, I tried to play it off like it was just an innocent nothing.
What the fuck was that? He just sat there! Why would he invite me here if he doesn’t even want to make out?
As I played with a string on the ripped knees in my jeans and tried to come up with an airtight excuse for why I had to leave that instant, Ken turned off the lamp next to the couch and started the movie. The gesture was subtle, but thanks to my downcast stare, I definitely caught a glimpse of him adjusting the crotch of his slacks once the lights were out.
I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling.
Maybe I’ll stay…just a little bit longer.
I woke up hours later in Ken’s darkened living room, horizontal on his microsuede couch. As I blinked up at the glowing TV, trying to get my bearings, I realized that my fully clothed body was lying across Ken’s lap. My head was on the armrest, and Julia Roberts was standing in a bookstore.
I was fucking mortified. I must have fallen asleep on him, but he didn’t seem to mind the contact. In fact, as I shifted and wiggled against him, trying to find a more comfortable position, I felt an unmistakable bulge swell and lengthen against my side. My hormones roared to life, ready for the action that usually followed such an appearance, but much to my surprise, Ken didn’t press it against me. Instead of feeling me up, his hands moved away, allowing me room to move.
By maintaining complete control of his body, Ken was allowing me to be in complete control of the situation.
It was a gift no one had ever given me before.
In my experience, boys were opportunistic assholes. Even the sweet ones. Give them an inch, and they’d take your hymen.
But, as I’d come to realize that night, in a multitude of ways, Ken was no boy. He wasn’t even a man. He was a rare subspecies, commonly referred to as a gentleman, that I didn’t even know still existed.
