Page 10 of Crawl for Me

Sable

T he cold hits the second we step out of the building, winter air sharp enough to bite the inside of my nose. Sam pulls his jacket tighter around himself with a dramatic shiver, muttering something about suing the company for frostbite.

The parking lot’s already thinned out, rows of headlights blinking away one by one, the crunch of tires over salt-gritted asphalt fading into the night.

We fall into the usual small talk—weekend plans, the sorry state of the vending machines, the latest office rumor he’s picked up. I let him chatter, watching my breath curl white in the air until we reach the split between our cars.

“See you Monday,” he says with a grin and a mock salute.

“Try not to put yourself into a gossip coma before then,” I shoot back, tugging my keys from my bag.

He laughs, waves, and peels off toward his dented hatchback. I slip into my own car, the faint smell of stale coffee clinging from the morning commute. The door shuts with a solid thud, cutting off the world outside.

I twist the key in the ignition. The engine coughs once, sputters, then dies.

Fucking typical. Of course. Because why wouldn’t the universe decide to shit in my lap today? All I want to do is go home, sink into bed, scream into a damn pillow—and this tin can decides to roll over and play dead.

“Don’t you dare ,” I mutter, jamming the key again.

The starter wheezes with a sad mechanical groan, before choking out completely. My hands slam the wheel, the horn bleating faintly under my palms. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

One more go.

Nothing but a hollow click. I slam the wheel again, harder this time, rattling the dash. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Friday night in sub-zero weather and my car decides to stage a dramatic death.

A sharp rap on the window makes me jump, heart leaping straight into my throat. I snap my head to the side.

Of course. Because the universe doesn’t know when to quit.

Noah stands there, bundled in his coat, scarf looped tight around his neck, his breath fogging out in steady white plumes. His dark hair is a mess from the wind, a few strands caught on his brow, and he’s peering down at me with that cautious half-smile.

Oh, great. Exactly what I needed.

I press the button, glass sliding down slow between us. Cold air rushes in, biting at my face.

“Trouble?” he asks.

I paste on the flattest smile I can manage. “Nope. No trouble. Just thought I’d sit here in a freezing parking lot for the fun of it.”

His brows lift a fraction. “Your car’s dead.”

“It’s not dead.”

“I heard it sputter from across the lot.”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, like I can will the damn thing back to life through sheer force. “Fine. It’s dead. But I’m going to call roadside.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning a little closer to the glass. “You’ll be here all night waiting for them. Let me give you a lift.”

I shake my head fast. “No, really. It’s fine. I’m good.”

“You’re not good. Your car’s dead.” He smiles softly. “Come on. It’s freezing. Let me drive you home.”

Oh, God. A thirty-minute ride trapped in a car with Noah. Thirty minutes of him fumbling words, stealing looks when he thinks I won’t notice, breathing the same air as me while every cell in my body tries to pretend Saturday never happened. It’s a terrible idea. A catastrophic idea.

Because I know exactly what’ll happen—I’ll stare out the window, he’ll fill the silence with nervous half-sentences, and the longer we’re stuck together, the more my brain will drag me straight back into his bed.

The weight of his shoulders between my thighs.

His mouth, hot and desperate, spelling my name into my skin.

Thirty minutes of that? I’ll be a lunatic by the time we hit the apartment lot.

But what other choice do I have? He’s right, roadside will take half the night, and I don’t want to lose my nipples to frostbite.

“Fine.” The word rips out of me on a groan. I wind up the window, grab my bag off the passenger seat, shove the strap over my shoulder, and shove the door open. “Which one’s yours?”

He jerks his chin toward the far row and starts walking.

I trail after him, boots crunching against the frosted asphalt.

He weaves between the rows until he stops beside a sleek black sedan that looks painfully out of place in this lot full of dented hatchbacks and salt-streaked SUVs.

Of course this is his. Polished, buttoned-up, perfectly presentable—just like the man himself is supposed to be.

He presses the fob, lights flashing once, and pulls the handle on the passenger side. The door swings open toward me and he waits, one hand braced lightly on the frame.

My heart stutters, stupid and too loud, and I grit my teeth against it. I have to force myself to move, to duck my head and slide into the seat, my bag clutched tight to my chest like armor. The leather creaks under me, chilled and stiff, the faint scent of his cologne ghosting in the air.

He shuts the door softly and a second later, the driver’s door opens, and then he’s sliding in beside me.

He fumbles with the air con like it’s suddenly the most complicated machine in the world, buttons clicking uselessly beneath his fingers.

“Music,” he blurts. “Do you like music? We could—uh—put something on?”

A groan worms its way out of my throat and his head tilts toward me. “So… is that a yes?”

“Just put something on, Noah,” I mutter, yanking the belt across my lap, clicking it into place. “I don’t care. I just want to get home.”

Away from the smell of your cologne, away from the heat bleeding off your skin, away from the way this already feels like too much.

He jams the key into the ignition clumsily and the engine rumbles to life.

His fingers stumble over the dial again.

He presses too hard, the vents wheeze, then he tries again and the dashboard lights up like a cheap Christmas tree.

Finally, mercifully, some quiet music trickles through the speakers.

Then, with a quick shift into gear, he eases us out of the lot, headlights carving a path into the dark.

The silence stretches, thick and awkward, filled only by the low hum of the engine and the music playing lightly in the background. I can feel him next to me, every fidget, every shift of his shoulders, rolling off him like static.

The car eases to a stop at the light, his hand darting for the gearstick—too quick, too close. His knuckles skim my thigh on the way down—barely there, accidental, but it lights me up like a struck match.

Every muscle in me goes rigid. Heat blooms low, traitorous, pooling fast, and my legs snap tighter together before I can even think.

It yanks me straight back to the Cos meeting, my knee pressed against his under the table. It was an accident at first—but I left it there, because it felt good, because he froze like a live wire. And now my body’s primed to treat Noah Calloway fumbling for third gear like it’s foreplay.

“Shit,” he blurts, jerking his hand back so fast it thuds against the console. “Sorry—I didn’t—fuck, I wasn’t—” His voice tangles in itself until he shuts his mouth, choking on whatever apology he was trying to spit out.

I keep my gaze on the dark blur of trees whipping past the window, jaw locked tight. “Eyes on the road, Noah.” My voice comes out clipped, flat—thank God—because my stomach’s in free-fall and my pulse is thrumming way too hard for something so small.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the death-grip he’s got on the wheel. He doesn’t say another word. Neither do I.

My eyes drift down for a second, to the place on my thigh where his hand skimmed. Barely a touch, nothing deliberate—but my skin hums like it remembers. My gaze shifts to his hand still curled tight around the stick, veins taut, fingers flexing once before locking still again.

I don’t know why my chest’s gone tight, why my breath feels clipped and uneven, like my lungs have forgotten the rhythm. Stupid. It was nothing. A simple graze. An accident.

And yet my pulse won’t settle, no matter how hard I will it to. And every damn mile—every second locked in this little metal box with him—is making it so much worse.

Is he thinking about it too?

Yes, it’s Noah. Of course he is.

I risk another glance. His grip on the wheel’s shifted, fingers flexing and tightening like he wants to strangle the leather. I want those fingers in me, spreading, pressing, working me open right here in the passenger seat.

What am I doing? This is wrong. Stupid. But I want it.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath. Then I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and let the words cut clean through the car. “Do it again.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “Wh—what? Do… what again?”

The leather creaks as I shift in my seat. “Touch my thigh again.”

He hisses out a curse, hands accidentally jerking against the wheel, tires humming against the lane markers.

“Are you—” His voice cracks, raw panic threading through it. “Sable, are you sure? I mean… you—you’ve been so sure…”

I angle my body toward him, eyes fixed on his jittery profile. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Noah.”

A strangled sound claws out of his throat and he sucks in a sharp breath. His hand trembles as it hovers in the space between us. Then he lowers it, knuckles brushing the fabric of my skirt for a split second. One fleeting stroke, a whisper of contact, before he drags his hand back to the wheel.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, want and frustration biting through me. That’s it? That’s all? My thighs ache for more, the nerves under my skin itching with it.

“Not like that,” I murmur. “Do it properly.”

He whispers something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—and his hand drifts back down, slow as treacle as he keeps his eye on the road.

My breath trips in a shallow gasp. Liquid need courses through my veins, pooling fast as his hand lands on my thigh, warm fingers splaying out across the muscle.