Page 67 of To Save Him

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-two

 

BRANDON MIGHT HAVE been several years my junior, but he was all man on this particular evening—a man who knew what he wanted.  He’d driven to the restaurant and hadn’t even asked if I wanted him to drive.  It started when he’d led us out to the car and opened the passenger door for me.  I very much was loving how he was taking control.

Yes. Control…something I realized I hadn’t given over to someone else in a long time.  Not since Mel.

And Brandon was proving to me that he deserved to have that kind of position in our relationship.  I’d started out by trying to tuck him under my wing, attempting to care for him, become a surrogate mother to him, but the fact of the matter was this:  I wasfuckinghim.  I shouldn’t feel the need tomothermy lover.

So…his stepping up and playing equal to me was just as titillating as the lack of underwear not covering my ass.  And, had I been more confident in my breasts’ perkiness, I would have gone without a bra too.

When we got to the hotel, he let the valet park the car and he tipped him.

I knew then that this was going to be a hell of a night.  And I felt so damn young, carefree…almost relaxed—but on edge and excited.

We sat at the table and I was content letting my eyes graze the menu while Brandon discussed wine with the waitress, asking what she recommended.  Much to my relief, she didn’t seem to judge the two of us together.  That alone helped me feel more relief, knowing that no one seemed to care about our age difference.  Not here, anyway.

Soon, we’d placed our orders and had full glasses of water and wine while we waited for our salads.  Brandon leaned over, a glint in his eye, and he said, “So…how do you feel?”

I swallowed and pursed my lips.  Unlike in my youth, I couldn’t pinpoint one single sensation or emotion—there was a lot going on in my head and my heart…and over lots of different things.  But I knew what he was getting at—and I’d promised to help him.  This, no matter how off the wall it might seem, was part of it.  And, besides, it wasn’t like I wasn’t reaping any benefits.  I was most definitely enjoying myself.  As that thought crossed my mind, I felt a smile form on my face and I raised an eyebrow.  “It feels a little drafty in here.”

He smiled back.  “Know what I want?”

“What?”

“I want you to touch yourself.”

I paused before asking, “Now? Here?”  He nodded, slowly but methodically.  I blinked a couple of times and looked around the restaurant.  No, it wasn’t full in there, but our table wasn’t exactly tucked away in a corner.  And even with the linen tablecloths, I didn’t know how much I’d be able to hide what I was doing.  I knew my internal debate showed on my face as I placed my hands on my lap, considering the idea.  I ran my flat palms down my thighs to my knees, still contemplating sliding my skirt back up, when the waitress arrived with our small plates of colorful salads and placed them in front of us on the table.

“Would either of you like fresh ground pepper?” she asked, holding a long shaker.

Brandon answered by moving his head back and forth slowly, just once.  I swallowed the pool of saliva in my mouth and said, “No, thank you.”  After she left, having told usbon appétit, I looked at Brandon.  “I can’t.  Not here.”

I saw the disappointment on his face as I picked up my salad fork…and what should have continued to be an enjoyable meal instead became almost torture.  One thing.  He’d asked forone thingand I couldn’t do it and now…well, now, Iwasn’thelping him like I’d promised.  Maybe we did need to talk about boundaries after all.  I’d told him to not worry about contracts and safewords and the like—and yet I was already hedging, already taking issue with his wants and desires.  And how was he supposed to have known I would be uncomfortable playing with myself in public?

Well…in my mind, that seemed to be a given.  Most people, given the choice, would not masturbate in public.  That I believed.  So, surely, he must have known or at least suspected?

He paid for dinner—again surprising the hell out of me, not that I’d expected him to freeload, but I would have been more than happy paying for mine or both of ours.  That, as well, reminded me that I needed to lose the mother part of me that wanted to baby him.  He did not want or need that from me.

No.  He’d needed one thing.  And I’d failed.

So when the valet brought us the car and we’d buckled in, hardly having said a word except for talking about how good the food was, I said, “Brandon, I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

His voice sounded deeper than I’d ever heard of it—edgy and almost frightening.  “We’re not going to talk about it.  Not right now.”

Why the hell was I scared?

After feeling my anxiety grow in the pit of my gut for a few miles, I reached over to turn on the radio.  I needed distraction.  But he touched my hand.  “No music.”  Holy shit.  The authoritative part of him that had been turning me on just an hour or so ago was now scaring the ever-loving crap out of me.  Should I be afraid?  It didn’t matter if I should—Iwas.  I’d made him angry and I was experiencing a side of Brandon I’d never seen before.

I was quiet the rest of the way home, trying to look out the side window (but it was dark, so I couldn’t see much once we were outside of town).  I also attempted to think positive thoughts, but that turned out to be nearly impossible.  I was too worried.

What if I’d triggered him somehow?  I wasn’t quite sure how PTSD worked or what exactly his issues were.  In fact, the first time I’d known about it, we’d had that rough sex in the shed…that he’d wound up not remembering.  He’d even made it a point to ask if he’d hurt me.  Did he grow violent when he had some kind of episode?  Was my life in danger?  Would he harm me or did I need to trust him?

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