Solitary moments

When the quiet hours arrive, she finds her chair, plays a song she knows by heart, and lets the music sink into her skin. She spreads her legs just enough to give her fingers room. One hand drifts down, finding the warm, slick swell between her thighs. She rubs slow circles over her clit, small and wet, feeling it pulse under the pads of her fingertips. The tempo of the track keeps her movements steady. Every soft breath lines up with a deeper stroke, and soon the music fills the space between her thighs as much as it fills the room.