Page 11 of Crawl for Me
Fuck , the fabric of my underwear’s clinging already. One touch. One damn touch.
I can’t look at him, not directly. So my gaze hovers instead—darting between the frantic rise and fall of his chest, and that hand. That damn, impossible, talented hand.
My nails dig crescents into the strap of my bag, a futile anchor. My pulse is wrecked, pounding fast and frantic, and I can already feel the thought creeping in—the one I shouldn’t be having. The frustration claws deeper, curling hot and mean under my ribs.
It isn’t enough. I want more.
My lips part with a shaky breath. “Squeeze,” I murmur. “Just squeeze it.”
His hand freezes like he’s been caught stealing, but then, slowly, he tightens his grip, fingers pressing harder into the flesh of my thigh.
My teeth sink into my lip, stifling my groan, holding it there until a sting blooms in the flesh. God. Just that—just his hand, firm and obedient, and my whole body lights up like a live wire.
He doesn’t glance at me. Not once. His eyes are locked on the road, knuckles bone-white on the wheel with his other hand, shoulders rigid as if one wrong move will send the whole car spinning. But still—he squeezes again. Rougher this time. Braver.
“Higher,” I say on a breath.
His fingers tremble, palm inching, fingers spreading wider against my thigh. My pulse stammers so hard it rattles my ribs.
My eyes flick down to his hand, inching higher. His chest, rising and falling too fast. And just below the line of the wheel... His slacks can barely contain him, the fabric pulled taut over the thick outline straining against the zipper.
My mouth waters, want pulsing hot through my veins. “You’re hard.”
He jolts, the car veering half an inch before he snatches it back in line. “I—I can’t help it. You told me to?—”
“I’m not complaining.” My hand shoots out before he can retreat, catching his wrist and pressing it down, firmer, against my thigh.
God, he’s shaking. The big, polished account lead who looks like he was born wearing a tie—trembling at the feel of my thigh under his hand. Something viciously sweet twists low in my stomach. He’d fall apart so easily if I pushed.
I drag his hand higher, guiding him, forcing the path myself as I lean back against the seat, my thighs spreading slowly until the hem of my skirt rides up over the tops of my stockings. “Inside,” I murmur steadily, even though my pulse is jackhammering. “Now.”
His breath falters, but his hand fumbles forward, fingers grazing up, until the barest brush of his knuckles skims the wet lace. My eyelids nearly flutter shut at the ghost of contact.
Then he pushes further, clumsy, frantic, like he can’t believe I’m letting him. His fingers slip under, sliding against bare, slick flesh, and I hear the noise he makes—half groan, half prayer.
“Oh, God,” he rasps.
My lips part on a shuddered breath as he drags over me, circling, rubbing me open with shaking fingers.
When his thumb grazes my clit in a tentative circle, it lights me up.
A gasp rips out of my chest, head tipping back against the seat, eyes burning shut, every nerve singing under his desperate, trembling touch.
“I said… in ,” I whisper, my voice heavy with command.
He obeys—driving one finger into me in a single, shaking thrust, pressing up against my G-spot. The sound that leaves me is guttural, humiliatingly raw, but I don’t care.
“Another,” I breathe. “Now.”
“I—I need to shift down.”
“Then do it,” I snap. “But you come right back.”
The car slows as he coasts to a stop at the red light.
His hand rips away—my body clenching at the loss of contact as he reaches for the gearstick.
But the second the car stills, he’s right back, plunging two fingers inside me at once, stretching me in one thick, shaking thrust. My free hand flies to the seatbelt, nails biting into the webbing to ground myself.
“God, Sable…” His voice fractures. “You’re dripping onto the seat.”
My thighs tighten like a vice around his wrist, pinning him right where I need him. He curls his fingers, clumsy and desperate, drawing out a moan.
The light flips green. He snaps his hand back to the gearstick, pushes into first, and the car lurches forward with a whine.
As soon as it’s third, he’s right back, knuckles grinding deep, stretching, searching, the heel of his palm catching me with every shift.
The contrast—engine thrumming, the world whipping by in blurred streaks, while inside me his fingers push and curl and pull—has me unraveling so fast it’s dizzying.
My chest heaves, breath catching, head thrown back as if I can escape the way my own body’s turning traitor on me. The slick noise of his fingers moving inside me fills the cabin, obscene and loud, and fuck if it doesn’t drive me closer, faster, harder.
The car rolls to a stop, headlights washing over the cracked curb and the half-dead shrubs lining the apartment lot.
His fingers slip from me as he fumbles for the stick, downshifting with a quiet whine.
Then he yanks the handbrake with a sharp click, and the engine cuts off with a twist of his wrist, the silence roaring louder than the traffic still hissing down the main road behind us.
I hear the frantic hitch of his breath as he unbuckles his belt, metal clinking in the dim cabin. He twists in his seat awkwardly, angling himself toward me.
“Seat—” His voice shreds out in a plea. “Put the seat back… please. I can’t—can’t reach properly.”
My breath shudders out of me, chest rising sharp and quick. I reach down and snap the lever, the seat sliding back with a long mechanical groan. The extra space yawns open between us, and he fills it immediately, leaning closer, his fingers trembling when they push back inside me.
A strangled sound tears from his throat. His forehead dips, breath shuddering hot against my cheek as his hand works rougher, needier, curling deeper until my hips jolt up to meet every thrust.
“Fuck…” His lips graze the edge of my jaw, scatter clumsy kisses up the line of my cheek, desperate and shaky. “Fuck, Sable… call me what you called me that night.” His voice is cracked open, ragged and begging.
Desire floods so thick it nearly chokes me. God. The sheer hunger in him—like he’d crawl through fire just to earn it.
“Make me come,” I breathe, my hand fisting in his coat to drag him closer, “and I will.”
He shoves harder, pressing another finger into me, stretching me wide, curling deep until the slick sound of it fills the car. His pace turns frantic, every thrust punching a cry from my throat, his mouth spilling against my skin—kisses, gasps, broken curses—like he can’t stop himself.
“Sable—” His voice breaks on my name, a raw, desperate sound, spilling out between kisses that scatter uselessly across my jaw, my temple, anywhere he can reach. “Sable, fuck, you feel—” He cuts off with a groan, working me like he can’t stop.
My pussy clenches around his fingers, grinding down against him, the pressure coiling so tight it feels like I’m about to shatter. Heat floods me, bursting low and sharp, dragging me over the edge in one violent rush.
“Oh—fuck—” The cry rips out of me, my back arching against the leather, vision sparking white as I come hard around his fingers. My body wrings dry, every nerve screaming, his hand still pushing through it, milking every last tremor until I’m left slumped, panting, sweat cooling on my skin.
Slowly, he drags his fingers out of me. My body clenches around nothing, furious at the absence, and my teeth sink into my lip to trap the gasp.
Before he can retreat into himself, I catch his face in my hand. My palm presses warm against his jaw, thumb stroking once across the stubble there.
I lean in, close enough for his breath to ghost hot against my cheek, and let my mouth brush a whisper of a kiss to his jaw. His breath hitches, his head tipping slightly toward the contact.
“Good boy,” I murmur against his skin.
His forehead drops forward again, a shiver tearing through him as he breathes my name. “Say it again,” he whispers. “Please—just one more time.”
I grip his jaw, steadying him until his eyes lift to mine, glassy and wide, like he doesn’t know what to do with air anymore. He looks beautiful like this.
“Good boy,” I repeat, firmer this time.
His throat bobs, a faint whimper catching there before he swallows it down. Fuck, that sound makes me want to drag him upstairs, lock the door, and keep going until he’s nothing but a wrecked puddle.
But the fog’s already clawing at edges of my mind, whispering reminders I don’t want to hear. Work, rules, the fact that we live down the hall from each other.
And that’s exactly why I need to get out of this car.
My hand lingers, thumb brushing once more before I lean in and press a final kiss to his cheek. Just enough to ground him—enough to ground me .
“You did good, Noah,” I say softly.
Then I sit back, tugging my skirt into place, pulse still tripping hard against the soaked lace plastered between my thighs—proof I’ve got no business setting rules when I fold this easily.
He scrubs a hand over his face, then through his hair, like he’s trying to scrape together the pieces I just stripped out of him.
“I can—uh—” His voice catches. “Tomorrow, I can drive you back to the lot. Check your car. Or…anything you need. I—” He shakes his head, a hoarse breath breaking out of him. “Fuck, Sable.”
The heat low in my stomach wants to say yes. Take him upstairs. Let him ruin me until dawn. But the voice in my head—the one that sounds like survival—snaps hard against it. Work. Rules. Distance.
I slide my hand up again, cupping his cheek, steadying him before he tips further off the edge. “It’s fine, Noah,” I tell him, flat but not unkind. “Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes flash, wide and desperate, like he’s ready to argue. But nothing makes it past his lips.
I reach down and snag my bag from the footwell, fingers curling tight around the door handle. “Come on,” I mutter, tipping my chin toward the windshield, fogged edge to edge. “Before someone files a complaint to building management about us turning the lot into a drive-thru peep show.”