{SASHA}
The gold of Tyler 's pajamas mimics the gold of the brocade canopy over our enormous bed, and when I lay him out against the deep blue sheets.
He looks exactly like a Renaissance masterpiece, a squirming feast for the eyes of sumptuous color and metallic sheen. I'd like to paint him, or at least photograph him, but I settle for letting my gaze travel over him,fixing the memory in my mind.
Tyler allows it until impatience drags his fingers up to the buttons of his pajama shirt. "Come on," he says, his voice low and needy as he undresses for me. "I want you, Sasha. Come on."
