The Best Part of the Day

by Dana Keylits

Castle considered this the best part of the day. When the blackness of night descended upon the city, casting it's corners and alleys in ominous shadow. Perhaps it was because he needed the cover of darkness to justify the macabre wanderings of his mind, he didn't know. He just knew that he took solace in the night. The hum of the city tempered, it's chaotic vibrations gently receding from the sidewalks and streets like tentacles curling in on themselves. His writers mind could roam around in the darkness, reaching into it's bowels to uncover the evil and mayhem that hid there.

When he was a younger man, the only time he could effectively spin his stories were in the hours between dusk and dawn. Insulated by the stillness and hushed tremors of night, his characters came to life. These characters that had become so much a part of him now, as though they had breath, and blood, and flesh. His fingers would furiously fly across the keyboard, manipulating the lives of his literary offspring like a master does to his marionette. And when the first stirrings of dawn approached, his fingers would stop, throbbing from the unrelenting labor of transferring the contents of his imagination to the page, and render his characters lifeless. Their puppet strings cut, their bodies impotent. Until later, inevitably, daylight would succumb to dusk, and they would rise again, ready to do his bidding.

But once Alexis was born, coming out of the womb tiny and pink and helpless, his habits changed and he had to adjust to writing by daylight. He did so voluntarily, happily, for the tradeoff was far more enriching than any of the novels he'd ever written, or would ever come to write. Even though they were as much a part of him as the heart that beat in his chest, if he had to, he could have easily cast aside his beloved characters in order to be her dad. And so, forsaking the night was not an act of resignation thrust upon him by some pre-arranged arbitration, it was truly an act of fatherhood. One that he willingly and lovingly fulfilled, without resentment or reservation.

Even so, he had always managed to keep the few hours between dusk and midnight for himself. He didn't always write at that time, sometimes he would just think. Lately, at times, he and Kate would make love. Afterwards, they would lay on their sides, facing one another, their arms and legs entwined, breathless, content, sweaty, sometimes exhausted, always in bliss, and he would watch her drift away to the land of nod, sent there accompanied by a flutter of soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, her warm full lips. With growing frequency, he'd discovered that he couldn't tear his eyes away from her, indelibly enamored with the lines of her face, the gentle curve of her lips, the chestnut hair that cascaded around her against the backdrop of the pillow. His eyes would roam to the shape of her beneath the covers, the flawless outline of her breasts, her hips, her thighs, all accentuated by the clinging sheet that perfectly draped her slender body.

When he was satisfied that she was asleep, the tell being the darting of her eyes beneath their lids, the measured rise and fall of her chest as she took each breath, he would quietly slip out of bed to roam around the night.

On this night, he padded around his apartment completely naked after a particularly feisty, and equally naked, evening of cat and mouse with Kate. His mother was away for the week, participating in a drama workshop at Harvard, of all places, and Alexis had long ago settled into dorm life, her visits home growing more and more infrequent. Kate had come over just before dusk, hopped up about the case she caught this morning, and needing his immediate, intimate, attention. They forfeited dinner for sex, not even making it to the bedroom but falling carelessly to the floor of his great room, their clothing discarded in a hurried race to unite their bodies in a frantic exercise of ecstasy, rolling around the floor like a pair of twirling dervishes. Release came quickly, as they cried out simultaneously, enraptured, exhausted, unshackled.

He was on top of her, panting, sweating, propped up on his elbows, his hands tucked under her shoulders, looking at her like she had just stolen his virginity. She had her arms around him, her fingers lazily tracing the spot on his back that dipped just above the delightful curve where his perfectly shaped ass began. She let out a long, slow, measured sigh that betrayed the complete and utter fulfillment their frenzied lovemaking had bestowed upon her.

Now, they were ready to eat. Wrapped in the burgundy cashmere throw that had been artfully draped across the back of the black leather sofa, Kate sauntered to the kitchen, opening cupboards, pulling out varied and tasty morsels of food. Castle chose to walk around naked, fulfilling his secret fantasy of being an exhibitionist. He uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir and poured them each a glass, handing her one, they clinked glasses, a slight "ping" echoing in the air, then hooked their arms and sipped, savoring the bold rich flavor of the wine as it slid down their throats. They kissed, the flavor of the wine mixing with the flavor of each other, their tongues, temporarily stained a deep shade of crimson, slowly waltzing from his mouth to hers and then back again. A satisfied moan tumbled from Kate's lips, and Castle felt the dormant fire in his belly suddenly re-ignite.

He stirred, she noticed, and then reached for him. She used her hands, gently, deliberately, like she was petting a baby bird. He leaned back against the counter, the glass of wine balancing perilously in his hand. She stood close, too close, every nerve in his body tuned in to what she was doing with her hand, to him. She moved faster, enjoying his torment, her eyes fixed on his, even though his were closed. She enjoyed seeing him this way, naked, open, vulnerable and responding with pleasure to what she was doing to him. It made her feel powerful, desired, euphoric.

He was close, very close, when suddenly the rhythm between them changed. His eyes fluttered open, she was on her knees, she had taken him in her mouth, her eyes raised upward seductively, briefly locking with his before he closed them again. He placed his hand gently on the back of her head, not that she needed his guidance, and concentrated on the smooth ministrations of her perfect lips.

She took in all of him while he moaned and writhed and lost all sense of restraint, and when he was satiated, she stood up, wiped her lips softly with her fingertips, then took a long, slow sip of her wine. He took a few minutes to catch his breath, his body pink with excitement, and then he followed her to the dining room table where she was spreading out a meal of cheese, crackers, fruit, yogurt, and crusty bread. Before eating, he decided it was necessary to put on his pajama bottoms, his body raw and wanting even while in it's current state of depletion.

They fed each other, taking turns tossing grapes into each others open mouths, holding crackers stacked with cheese for the other to bite, playfully licking yogurt from each others lips. Their meal alternated between the food and wine and each other, he playfully nibbling her bottom lip, she delicately placing her tongue in his ear. They kissed. And when they'd had their fill, they collected their wine glasses and the nearly empty bottle of Pinot Noir, and moved to the office so Castle could check his email and Kate could watch TV.

He'd begun recording Temptation Lane on his DVR in case Kate wanted to watch, he'd learned she was a fan and loved this about her. She folded herself into the overstuffed brown leather chair while Castle plopped down at his desk. As she watched the screen, he stole momentary glances, taking in her genuine smile, the angles of her face, the flawless skin that covered her long Hepburnesque neck. Whenever she laughed he couldn't help but melt, so girlish were her giggles.

When he'd finished at his computer, he strode to where she sat, hugging the luxuriously soft blanket to her body. Night had fallen and the atmosphere outside had taken on that magical, mysterious aura in which Castle reveled. He knelt on the carpet in front of her, gazing at her with a mix of lust and admiration. Her eyes shifted from what was happening on the screen to what was happening before her. A slow smile crept along her face, her eyes twinkled with anticipation.

He reached up and shoved the blanket aside, exposing her to him. She scooted forward, unfolding her legs as he dipped his head between them. With his tongue he touched her, forcing a current of electricity to spark from her center and travel throughout every nerve of her body. She threw her head back, closing her eyes, covering his hand as it covered her breast, massaging, teasing, tugging. She wrapped her legs around him, rocking her hips in an attempt to match the urgent course of his tongue. When she came, she cried out desperately, primitively, casting aside any concern that the neighbors might hear. Castle pasted tranquil kisses along her inner thighs until the motion of her orgasm subsided. Then he rose up, gathered her in his arms, and carried her, naked, to the bedroom.

They made love. She on top of him, straddling him, slow, even thrusts of her pelvis, leaning down to kiss him, tasting the remnants of their meal, the familiar sweetness of his mouth, the musky scent of her sex. Their mouths searching, reaching, seizing each other in desperate, frantic kisses. His hands on her breasts, caressing them in time to her measured gyrations. And when they climaxed, first she, and then minutes later, he, they collapsed against each other, completely spent, unable to move a muscle. Not wanting to. All they could do was lay still, so tangled together they were not entirely sure where one ended and the other began. Their bodies salty, sweaty, smelling of sex and wine and each other. The balmy humid air descended upon them like a comfortable duvet, encircling them, sheltering them, lulling her to sleep as he watched, breathless, wanting, in love.

And now he was pacing the apartment, warm and naked, his body relaxed from their sexual triple play, his mind mulling over story ideas for his next book, his heart brimming for his muse, his partner, his friend, his lover. He felt safe in the dark, protected by it's mystery but more than that, protected by her. By his feelings for her. By her feelings for him. It suddenly occurred to him that he'd never had this. He'd loved other women, but he'd never felt like this. He'd never felt complete before now.

Suddenly, he needed to be near her. He hurried through the loft, turning off the lights, putting the food away, setting the dishes into the sink, before returning to his bed where she lay peacefully, blissfully, on her side, the covers tucked beneath her deliciously sculpted arms.

The moonlight streamed in through the long window, bouncing softly off of her porcelain skin. She was facing his half of the bed and as he crawled under the covers beside her, he was once again struck dumb by her beauty, her warmth, the scent of her that had always reminded him of cherries. As he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come, he thanked whatever force in the universe, whatever linchpin, had brought her to him.

Kate relished the morning. That time before the sun rises when the vibration of the city is muted, dull, having been relegated to a low hum throughout the night. The air is still and cool and smelling of cinnamon and roasted nuts, the night sky shifting from black to blue to purple then pink. Her mind was at it's most serene in these wee hours, the crashing, buzzing, chaos of her work, sometimes her life, held at bay for those few precious hours, or on days when she caught an early morning case, minutes. She had come to think of that time as though it belonged to her. While everyone else slept, this space and time was hers.

When their romance began, she was relieved to discover that Castle was not a morning person and so on those nights when she shared her bed with him, or he shared his with her, she didn't have to relinquish her blessed early morning sanctuary in order to be with him.

After her mom died, the only time Kate could find respite from her grief, even if only for the few seconds between waking and remembering, was in the early hours of the day. She would crawl out of bed, tiptoe past her fathers bedroom where he was still sleeping, or more likely, pretending to sleep, and nestle herself at the window to watch the sky change color. She felt protected by the surrounding darkness, as though insulated in a warm cocoon where she imagined that nothing bad could ever happen to her, she was guarded by the dawn, as though time and space were suspended and she was immune to the evils, the perils, that existed in the world.

As she grew, and aged, becoming jaded by experience, by hurt, by violence, the protective nature of those hours lessened - but never abdicated their duty to heal her. After her shooting, she depended on the dawn to provide her with a daily dose of restorative, medicinal relief, as though it were an antibiotic. And, it never failed her. Ever.

And so, on this morning, it was no different. Her lover was sleeping soundly in his bed while she was curled up on the couch, a warm cup of coffee nestled in her hands. Her eyes closed, her naked body covered by the oversized bathrobe Castle housed on a peg in his bathroom. She concentrated on the transforming sounds of the city as it gradually awakened around her. She was waiting for the first lick of sun on her face as it spread across the sidewalks and streets of the city like unfurling tentacles, creeping up the sides of buildings and peeking into windows and doorways, and when that happened, she would unfold herself, prepare herself, tuck the protective memory of this moment in her back pocket, and begin her day.

He was still sleeping soundly, the covers shrouding him from the waist down, when she tiptoed back to his bedroom. She tentatively reached out, not wanting to wake him, and moved an errant strand of hair from his forehead, her eyes dropping to the place where the sheet had slipped down low, exposing the trail of curly hair that traveled southward from his naval. She smiled sweetly, thanking whatever force in the universe that was responsible for bringing them together.

Stepping into the shower, her mind wandered back to their lovemaking from the night before and under the hot stream of pressurized water, she felt her cheeks flush. She responded to the familiar stirring between her legs by delicately placing one hand low, using her fingers to ease the pressure there. She recalled the image of him, between her thighs, looking at her, pleasing her, loving her, and she closed her eyes, placing both hands against the tiled wall of the shower as though she were a suspect about to get frisked, the hot water cascading around her, hugging the curves of her body before swirling clockwise down the drain at her feet.

And then, without warning, the shower door swung open, transforming the clouds of steam from the scalding water into frantic swirling cyclones above her, and he was there, naked, awake, aroused.

"Hey," he said, stepping into the shower and closing the door with a whoosh behind him.

"Hey," she responded, her lips parting into a smile, revealing the row of dazzling white teeth beneath. Her fingers finding their way to his chest, she looked up at him from beneath the long fan of lashes that framed her eyes.

He arched an eyebrow, grinning, and drew her into his arms, kissing her with absolute abandon, his tongue darting eagerly into her mouth where it roamed, explored, danced. She responded, a low humming escaping her throat. She curled her right leg around his left, her pelvis nestling into that spot on his body where they fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

Oh yes, they both thought, this was the best part of the day.

The End