Andy was gloriously naked, resplendent, a vision he had never deserved but always desired. Her hair cascaded across her bare back, falling between the sharp peaks of her shoulder blades, flames against her pale skin. Toby had always considered the silky texture of her hair through his fingers one of life's true luxuries, akin to the way a sixty year old whiskey slid across his tongue, making his flesh hum.
The pen and paper have always been his only endowments, the only consolation he allowed himself, yet in moments like this he wished he could write words onto - into - her skin, change their story.
Their children were asleep in their beds. They remained the sole thing he ever did right by Andy. They resembled her in every way, from the mischievous glee that sparkled in their eyes to the way they would say his name in her exact tone, conveying love and exasperation simultaneously. It made him love her more.
Toby drew a finger down her spine, committing every sensation, every cant and camber to memory. He pressed his lips to her shoulder, reveling in the way it made her stir lazily against the sheets. She turned to him, cheeks still pink.
A shock of hair fell across her face, partially obscuring her eyes. She ran her hand up his thigh, the pressure firm, insistent. She had always been more than he could handle, a fiery tempest beyond even the control of Prospero, brimming with passion and intelligence.
The way her fingers slid across his skin, without hesitation, made him feel more attractive than he was. Andy rose up over him and he found himself alive again, ready and more than willing.
Her hair fell like a curtain around them as she leaned for a kiss, casting his world in deep red hues.