She could see it now: the crime scene officers gathering up the rabbit and The Suck-u-buzz and the discarded bag under the bed with the unused lube. Fingerprinting her Kindle, still open at Winona’s book. The cause of death on all the official paperwork would be sexual misadventure.

And her epitaph? Here lies Della Munroe. She died with a smile on her face. Or maybe—Here lies Della Munroe. Curiosity really did kill the cat. Or, more likely—Here lies Della Munroe. Masturbator!

Della shut her eyes against the ridiculous thoughts and forced herself to breathe, to relax, to settle her madly beating heart. It was just a dildo. Millions of women did this all over the world—probably very few of them died of a heart attack in the process.

Focus, Della.

Shutting everything out, she concentrated on the sensation. Down there. On the fullness. Frieda had said it would fill her up, and it did. She didn’t feel stuffed full or stretched to her limits, but she was aware of the solid hardness between her legs, and gradually she relaxed.

Opening her eyes, she picked up the book again, flicking to one of her favorite scenes, where the hero sits the heroine in his lap, her back to his stomach, in front of a mirror. She’s naked and he’s fully clothed, and he massages oil everywhere.

Clearly Winona had no problem getting this couple to do it.

By the time the hero’s fingers furrowed between the heroine’s legs, Della’s fingers had followed suit, eagerly exploring uncharted territory, finding the hard nub of her clitoris and stroking.

Oh yesss.

It took a pathetically short amount of time to climax. Seriously, if she’d had minute rice cooking in the microwave, she’d have been done before it. But that didn’t make it any less cataclysmic. The orgasm rose up out of nowhere, her sex suddenly clenching tight around the dildo as waves of pleasure washed over her in a series of hard, frantic pulsations.

As quickly as it started, it was over, and, excruciatingly sensitive down there, Della pulled the dildo out and curled into a ball, waiting for all the scattered cells in her body to reassemble themselves.

If that was possible.

She had never had an orgasm until tonight. And hell yeah…she could definitely see what all the fuss was about.

She cried then, tears welling in her eyes. Cried at the realization that Todd, who had taken so much from her, had also taken this—pleasure. Had taken the path of sexual discovery and exploration from her—a path they could have taken together—and erased it. He’d made her feel so…unworthy of pleasure that it had taken her three years to realize she wasn’t. That she deserved to have pleasure in her life, too.