‘I wonder if it reminds you of having your umbilical cord wrapped around your neck, if that's why you like it?’ she says. ‘Oh God, don't answer that. I can't believe I said that.’
I laugh, clear my throat, and say, ‘I like it because having your hands around my throat makes me come real hard. You know, baby, you got some kinky fucking ideas.’
‘It's your kink.’
‘I never let anybody choke me at the MMA gym. You started it.’
‘Only I didn't mean it to be sexual,’ she says, and blushes like a doll.
‘Turns me on when you try to hurt me.’
We lie for a bit, hands in each other’s hair, face against face, watching each other in extreme close-up. The blue flecks in her green eyes. The sadness in those eyes, though, even when she smiles. Always there, though I don’t always know what it is.
Even when we’re the happiest together, it never really goes away.
I’m nowhere close to the measure of her pain. I see now that Amy’s suffering is of a different order. Gulfs, chasms, continents, voids — those are the tropes that split her apart from me.
If I could fix all your broken strings, Amy, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’d die for you.
I bought Elizabeth an apartment next door to our luxury house in Norway. Amy looks after her as much as possible. I’ve made sure her sister has a team of nurses on hand whenever she needs it. It makes Amy happy seeing her sister be able to live a normal life, that is, as much as she can with her broken brain.
I wake up in the morning and find Amy already up, staring out at the fjord through the bay window. White dress and sandals, white straps and skin.
Like a goddamn snow angel.
‘Hey baby,’ I say.
Without turning she says, ‘There’s something cleansing about the light here, like it resets a part of you that’s got corrupted.’
I pull her dress up over her thigh. I look down. She’s naked under it.
‘Really?’ she says. ‘Again? After last night?’
‘Yeah, baby. I’ll never be done with you.’
We make each other orgasm with the intensity of liquid cocaine. Amy buries her face in my neck, breathing me in. Her stomach growls.
‘You need to eat. Want me to make you a sandwich?’ I say.
‘Maybe I'll have some ice cream.’ She rises on her hands and knees.
‘I'll get it.’
I lift her off me and pad towards my princess baby’s room.
I gave up smoking. Gave up dying. Made a baby instead.
I find Viola sleeping so I don’t disturb her. I check in on Max, too, who is still asleep, then I go into the kitchen. I open the freezer and pull out a small pink and white striped carton. Virginal ice cream. Pure white with a thick cord of dark red running through it. Only the best for my girl.
When I get back, I lie down on the bed, pull the little ice cream carton to rest in the middle of my chest, open it, and spoon some out.
‘Lie down. Put your head on my shoulder,’ I say.
Only when she obeys, do I give her the mouthful of ice cream. It goes in smoothly sweet, but the pomegranate is tart on the sides of her tongue, makes her mouth water. She swallows it.
‘I can feed myself.’
‘No. There's this thing you do when I hold the spoon and you lick the ice cream that I like.’
I give her another bite, but kiss her and make her share it. I feed her and kiss her. After a few bites, she says, ‘You know what would be good? Some water. All this ice cream and sex is getting me very thirsty.’
‘In a minute. You’re too fucking sexy right now.’ Instead, I give her a big scoop of ice cream just for herself.
‘I’m really thirsty, Shepherd,’ she mumbles with her mouth full, then giggles.
I push up on an elbow, and roll towards her. I lift the ice cream off my chest, and look at her intently.
I smile, then set the ice-cream carton onto her bare buttocks. The jarring cold of the ice cream makes her gasp. She fumbles behind herself to stop me. I pull it away, but use my elbow to hike her leg up over me, and press the cold between her thighs, directly against her hot pussy.
Her voice catches in her throat. I laugh as she slaps me, and tries to wriggle free. But I hold the ice cream against her, make her shiver until her tummy hitches from the shock of it.
‘That sound. That little hiccup sound,’ I say, and pull the carton away.
‘I was going to eat that ice cream, Shepherd,’ she mutters. She squeezes her hands between her thighs.
‘Still edible, baby.’ To demonstrate, I retrieve the spoon from under her and eat a bite. ‘A little melted. Hot pussy sundae. Did that hurt? I didn't actually mean for that to hurt.’
‘No, it's just cold. You know, because it's frozen.’ She grudgingly accepts the bite of ice cream I offer.
I reach over her and put the carton and spoon on the nightstand. I tug her against me, and press my hand between her legs. For several minutes, I keep it there, spoon against her back.
‘Is that better, baby?’
‘A little,’ she says, my hand hot.
‘What about this?’ I begin rubbing her and then plunge my fingers deep into her, make her shudder. She squeezes her thighs around my hand to still it. I don’t insist, and go back to petting her.
I press my face
