"La Petite Mort"
Death was not like an orgasm. She knew this, although she'd had precious little of both. Death was supposed to be a one-time occurrence, and it was almost as barred for her as the rush of pleasure that signified the end of sex. 'A little death' was the agonizing stroke of a razor's edge against bone, the shivery-sweet agony of blades sliding beneath the skin and through the muscle. Small deaths of the senses, of the heart, of the soul. Small deaths that she caused, the violation of the mind and body. Immortality came with endless, intimate funerals.
An orgasm was a blinding, all-consuming pulse that erased eternity in the span of a second. If this was the sensation she had to look forward to when the breath left her body, the temptation of a brutal fall or a quiet and peaceful slip of the hand over a cup of tea was more powerful and inviting than the luster of the apple in Eden. She could not forsake her duty or her prince. She'd forfeited the right to release.
Therefore, death could be nothing like an orgasm.