Donna never used sex toys.
There just wasn't a need for them — her fingers were more than enough to bring her to a quick and satisfying release. She was well-acquainted with her body, knew all the tricks and let her imagination run wild.
The night after Harvey and strawberries and whipped cream, she'd tossed and turned and groaned out loud as she shoved her underwear aside to touch herself.
And suddenly, her imagination was no longer enough.
Harvey was...fulfilling, for lack of a better word, and she craved that stimulation, a replication of their connection, and she hated herself for it.
The ad popped up on her laptop the next day. She thought it was the universe playing a sick joke, but once she read the product description, she wasn't laughing anymore.
Donna told herself it was a practical purchase. A healthy, functioning woman in her late twenties should own a vibrator.
Until she turned it on, pushed it inside and practically felt Harvey on top of her, and she could no longer kid herself.
From then on, she used it whenever she felt particularly...Harvey-less. After a late night at the office, passing glances turning to heated stares; when he winked at her and said "we got 'em" coming back from a deposition; days where she didn't see him at all, meeting after meeting or worse — the days he spent in court. Those nights, she pictured herself in his desk chair when he returned, jacket off and tie undone the way she secretly loved; he'd swivel her around so her back was to the door, hook her legs around his shoulders and eat her out until she screamed.
(Those were good nights.)
It filled her up and made her toes curl in conjunction with the memory of his rough voice and calloused fingers.
It was enough.
Or so she told herself.
Years later, he finds it when packing up her apartment, shoved in the back of her drawer.
She gives him a devilish smile and says,
"Harvey 2.0 has nothing on you."