Page 41 of All Your Pucking Secrets

Oh, lord. They're sex toys.

What the ever-loving hell?

I pick up the largest one, which is inside a bright purple box. According to the label, it’s a vibrating dildo made of soft silicon, with a built-in warmer to make it feel like a real cock.

I blink at it stupidly, wondering what the fuck is happening.

Moving on autopilot, I set the box aside and reach for what looks to be a tiny pink vibe. I push the button and it buzzes to life. Disturbed, I toss it on the bed, where it wriggles across the coverlet and falls onto the floor.

Why am I gazing at a collection of sex toys that would make a porn star proud? Just why?

Deciding to do a quick inventory, I clear the packing peanuts away and study what remains. There are two small vibrators, the impressively purple dildo, and several toys I don’t recognize, but the accompanying information proclaims them to be for external stimulation only.

Then, to top things off, there’s a bottle of ginger-scented massage oil, a candle that smells of strawberries, and a miniature bottle of sparkling wine, along with a note to chill before drinking.

I don’t understand.

That’s when I spot the letter.

It’s fallen off to the side, the corner of the envelope just visible beneath my pillow. I tear it open and pull out the cream card within. The letter is short, and to the point.

Echo,

From the depths of my heart, you will never know how sorry I am. There are a hundred things I could apologize for, but after the weekend, I know of one more.

It’s a tragedy that you’ve been robbed of your ability to get pleasure from sex. I can’t go back in time and protect you, or make different decisions, but I hope these might help in some way.

Tyler XO

There’s a phone number scrawled beneath his name. I grab my phone and call it. He answers immediately.

“Kinsey.”

“This is not okay,” I tell him. “You’d already crossed a line, but now you’re stomping all over it. This is way too personal. My sex life is none of your business.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then says, “Like it or not, I care about you. You don’t ever have to speak to me again if you don’t want to—although I hope you will, and I’m not giving up—but you should try them out. You deserve to feel good.”

I gape. I honestly have no idea how to respond to that. In a way, it’s sweet. But he’s also way overstepping and butting in somewhere he’s not welcome.

“When was the last time you came?” he asks.

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His tone is gentle, but he isn’t backing down.

“I’m not answering that.”

Years. It’s been years.

To add insult to injury, the last time I orgasmed was with him inside me. After our breakup, I was too upset to be interested in sex, and then The Incident damaged something in me.

“I’m guessing way too long.” He doesn’t seem daunted by my refusal to cooperate.

I clench the phone, my breath growing erratic. Why can’t I hang up on him? It should be easy. All I need to do is press one button and then block him. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to do it.

“Shut up,” I say weakly.

“Mm. I thought so. I suggest you light the candle, get comfortable, and try out the least threatening thing in that box. Maybe the clit stimulator.”

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