Forsaking erotic fiction for more serious (but still ultimately masturbatory) prose, I recently finished reading Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections.
My assessment: Heavenly, heavenly prose. I sighed with pleasure, groaned with delight, craved a cigarette when it was over. Sometimes I'd read a great sentence and just stop, admire, and, as one reviewer warned, have to check my impulse to whistle.
I try not to be prescriptive, but if this book isn't on your reading list, it really ought to be.