She scoffed to herself.

“Toy salesman, my ass,” she muttered as she plugged his name into Google, and up popped a website for Joy Delivered.

Oh, my.

The man was the CEO of Joy Delivered? A thrill ran down her spine, electric and hot. She knew Joy Delivered, and it had delivered for her night after night. She had a drawer full of Joy Delivered goodies, and they were the Christian Louboutins of the sex toy world, as she and her friend Sutton liked to say. Everything else was Payless, and everything else paled in comparison. “Once you’ve gone Joy Delivered, you’ll never leave your bedroom,” Sutton had once said in her pretty British voice when the two of them had popped into Eden, a sex toy shop on the Upper East Side. Michelle vastly preferred the comfort of online shopping—you never knew in New York when you might run into a colleague, a patient, or a researcher you were submitting a paper to. But Sutton had insisted, and Michelle had gone along, acquiring one of many battery-operated boyfriends.

Her friend was right.

Michelle was Joy Delivered or bust now. A true brand loyalist, because the Os it had brought her were magnificent.

When she was tired and simply wanted to take the edge off before bed, she’d fire up some of her favorite naughty sites, grab the Fly Me to the Moon mini vibrator and take care of business in mere minutes. Other nights, she’d spent more than a round or two with The One—a delicious rabbit-styled vibrator that she swore had some kind of special homing device for finding her G-spot. Oh, she’d practically sung arias from the way that baby had her perform.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she flashed back to some of the orgasms his toys had wrought. Did he design them? Did he know what they did to women? Did he test them out on his lovers, making sure the butterflies, the bunnies, the fly-me-to-the-moons did the trick, and then some?

Would he try his latest products on her?

A burst of heat spread through her belly, settling between her legs. She dropped her hand under her skirt, brushing her fingertips against the cotton panel of her lace panties. Her breath caught as she pictured Jack watching her, telling her to spread her legs, offering to test his newest products on her, even though he hardly needed any help. The man’s cock was divine. It should have a statue erected in its honor. A national holiday named for it. A parade to celebrate its length, width, and most of all, its feel.

Hot tingles raced through her body, causing a sweet ache between her thighs.

She sat up straight.

She did not need to get turned on in the office, and certainly not from perusing her lover’s website.

Wait. Was he her lover? He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He was a one-night stand, and she was simply a curious woman conducting the necessary post-mortem research.