“Well, no, your
beautiful image did not pop up, but something quite interesting did.”
“Tell me.” I dared not hope there might be some form of treatment.
“The site I found said it is one of the most hidden of all neurological disorders—a condition called pseudobulbar affect, PBA.”
“It has a name?!” I was shocked.
“Here, let me read it to you from the site itself.” He tapped into his phone and started reading. “People with PBA are subject to uncontrollable episodes of crying or laughing without an evident reason. While the exact causes of the disorder are not fully understood, it appears to be associated with injuries to neurological pathways in the brain that control emotional response. It is often seen in patients with diseases like ALS, MS, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and in those who’ve experienced brain trauma,” he said with emphasis.
“Brain trauma . . .” I breathed.
“Let me finish the last bit,” he scolded gently. “In some cases, a patient with PBA has an underlying brain injury he or she wasn’t even aware of. One of the main things that distinguish PBA from depression is that the emotional episodes are unpredictable and very short, ranging from seconds to minutes, and they occur multiple times a day. They require a great deal of energy to hold back.” He squeezed my shoulder. “You were right, Brooke, about not feeling depressed, because I don’t see that in you, either. But you did have a serious injury,” he said, while tracing the scar along my hairline with his finger.
“I was in a coma for three weeks . . . because that is what your brain does after a traumatic injury. The accident—I knew it did something to me. I felt that I was different, but I didn’t delve further because I figured there was nothing to be done about it. Plus, I was so grateful to be alive, when I could’ve died so very easily, I just didn’t dwell on the fact the episodes were happening more frequently.”
“There is more.”
I froze. “I am afraid to even hope there is a treatment that doesn’t involve a brain surgeon and a scalpel.”
He laughed again and kissed the top of my head. “You have a beautiful and brilliant brain, Brooke Casterley. You can think up the cleverest things to say to me at the oddest moments. It must be your British wit.”
“Maybe so, but you have a beautiful and brilliant heart, Caleb Blackstone. You can do magic with it and in ways I never imagined. It must be your American optimism.”
He leaned around to speak close against my lips. “There is a medication you can take that makes the episodes far less frequent.”
“Amazing.”
“When you’re ready, I want you to see a specialist in the city. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes. After the wedding is over, I will.” I could feel the warmth of his lips so very close to mine. “I want to do it for me, too.”
“Thank you, baby.”
Then he kissed me thoroughly and showed me yet again the range of just how far his beautiful and brilliant heart could go.
Caleb
Brooke on her knees with her lips wrapped around my dick was an out-of-this-fucking-world beautiful thing. So beautiful, in fact, I was having another one of those cornea-burning experiences. Yeah, I was gonna go blind soon, but it would feel so good as it happened and I would be smiling when the world went dark.
“Baby . . . ahhh . . . feels good. Jesus—it’s good.” I guided her head as she took me all the way to the base of my cock again and again. Being inside any part of her without a barrier was the fucking best feeling. She tugged on my nuts and rolled them around in her hand as I felt everything tighten up. “I’m going to come in your mouth. If you don’t want that—stop now,” I ground out, totally on the edge of losing my control. I removed my hands from her head and brought them up to mine, gripping handfuls of my own hair until my scalp stung. “Ahhh . . . fuuuck!” I threw my head back as it started.
But she did not stop.
She did not pull her lovely mouth off my cock.
No, she slid me to the back of her throat instead, and took every shot of my cum until there was no more, her eyes on mine as I emptied into her. It was a perfect moment of intimacy and generosity from her to me—almost. Because although I understood the need to show her patience, there was one thing I regretted.
She wasn’t yet ready to hear me say I love you. I certainly would have said it in that moment as our eyes connected—because I certainly loved her.
I hauled her up from where she’d been kneeling and put her on my lap. Pressed us chest to chest and folded her legs alongside my hips. She nestled into me, and I inhaled the intoxicating scent of her. Hair that reminded me of a field of flowers reaching for the sun, and skin that held the essence of oranges for some reason. Maybe it was the perfume or lotion she used, but the scent of oranges would forever be something I associated with her.
Oranges mingled with the earthy scent of the seed I’d just pumped into her.
My caveman notions weren’t lost on me, either. I was right there in the mental state of “woman mine—you come under my furs—my cave—we fuck now” with Brooke. She’d turned me into one horny fucking creature, that side of me wanting to get buck-ass naked and lick each other’s privates for a day. The impulse was there; training just taught us to suppress it. But when we were alone with someone who felt the same way, the impulse was triggered, allowing us to act out our very dirty fantasies in a way that was totally liberating. Brooke triggered that impulse for me.
It was real and it was permanent, of this I was certain—I couldn’t feel this way about anyone else but her, going forward.