Outside it was dark and the wind was mourning; its tears running down the window. I could vaguely see my silhouetted reflection in the mirror when the lightning struck, and watched the curve of my body being traced by delicate fingers.

This was not a sad time and I turned up the music to drown out the howling. I laid back against the soft covers. The hands were warm and comforting on my skin, and slowly started exploring – running through my hair, caressing my face, trailing down. One hand lingered on my left nipple – a ripe little blackberry eager to be picked. The other cupped the curve of my right breast briefly before inching lower. Deft fingers slid between my underwear and skin, and left me breathless.

A flood turned in the warm alcove of my body, pulled by this touch like the tides by the moon. I closed my eyes and listened to the pleasure being sung by my body – this beautiful instrument, this pure art. My senses were being overwhelmed in a sensual release. I came like sun bursting through the rain and in his deep voice he asked, “Won’t you let me see your naked body?”

Long after the music stopped I savoured the sudden silence. I stretched, rolled over, and finally got out of bed. I placed the CD back in the “Death of a Ladies’ Man” cover, and smiled at my own memories as I got in the shower. Who says being single is boring?