Page 12 of Crawl for Me

Noah

I flip the folder open, eyes skimming numbers that won’t stick. I could stare at these figures all day and I swear, it still wouldn’t scrape her out of my head.

Because it’s not numbers I see.

It’s the red wash of my brake lights in the lot. The fogged-up windshield. Her skirt riding high as she shifted against the seat, breath catching on my name while my hand— Christ —while my hand was buried inside her.

We went back up in silence. The whole elevator ride was just both of us staring at the numbers above the door like she hadn’t let me touch her—let me fuck her open with my hand until she came apart in the passenger seat.

Her apartment door clicked shut down the hall, and that was it. Done and dusted.

Except it wasn’t done. Not for me.

I paced my own apartment like a lunatic that whole night, half-waiting for a knock, half-daring myself to make one.

On Saturday, I almost did. Twice. Keys in hand, walking down the hall like I was about to return a casserole dish or something—except what was I supposed to say?

Hi, remember me? The guy who ate you out once and fingered you in my car? Mind if I do it again?

I didn’t even make it halfway down the hall before I turned around like a coward.

Sunday was worse. Pathetic worse. I kept inventing reasons to be in the hallway, like a dog waiting at the table for scraps.

Mailbox. Laundry. Trash. Didn’t matter that the bag was nearly empty.

I took it down anyway. On the off chance she might come out into the hallway at the same time.

Like if I somehow timed it just right, I’d be tossed a bone.

But nothing. Nothing all weekend. Didn’t catch her on the way to work this morning. Not in the hall, not in the elevator. It’s like she’s drawn the line clean on Friday night and iced me out.

“Hello?”

The word snaps me out of my spiral. My head jerks down, and there she is—Sable—standing right next to me, so close I can see the faint, impatient crease between her brows, the sheen of the soft pink gloss painted onto her lips. My stomach lurches.

Beautiful. God, she’s beautiful.

“Well?” she says.

I just blink at her, brain lagging miles behind. “Uh—what?”

Her brow arches higher. “Are you going to move?”

“Move? Why would I…”

She gestures toward the counter with her chin. “The coffee machine. You’ve been hogging it for ten minutes.”

I follow her gaze. Fuck. My mug’s sat there on the tray, full, and probably going cold. “Oh. Right. Shit. Sorry.” I grab it quickly, nearly sloshing it over my hand.

She sighs heavily and shoulders past me, the edge of her arm nudging into my ribs as she reaches for the mugs stacked on the shelf.

It’s nothing—barely a graze—but my knees nearly buckle.

That familiar, soft, sugary scent drifts up from her hair, flooding my lungs.

My mouth waters. God, I want to sink forward, lean down, press my face against her neck, drown in it, breathe her in until I choke.

Instead, I stand there, frozen like an idiot with my mug clutched tight in my hand.

She clears her throat, eyes flicking up to glare at me.

Move, Noah. Jesus Christ.

I jerk myself sideways to clear her space and lean back against the counter, trying to play the whole thing off as something completely casual as I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee.

She doesn’t spare me another glance as she slides the pod in and presses the button, fingers tapping idly against the counter while the machine hums to life.

I take another swallow, trying to keep my eyes anywhere else, but failing spectacularly.

She really does look beautiful, even in her work clothes…

The blouse, tucked neatly into her waistband.

The faint crease of fabric pulling across her stomach when she shifts.

Her hair pinned back, but not perfectly—stray strands falling loose, brushing her cheekbone…

My fingers twitch against the mug. I could lean over if I wanted to, smooth it back from her face. Just one second of her skin on mine. Completely harmless.

Before I can catch up with the thought, I’m already doing it. My hand drifts up, knuckles grazing the edge of her jaw as I sweep the loose piece of hair toward her ear.

Her breath hitches hard, whole body going stock-still.

A dangerous thrill coils tight in my gut—I shouldn’t have touched her, I know I shouldn’t—but God, I’m aching to do it again.

Then her head snaps toward me, eyes blazing like I’ve just committed triple homicide on a Monday afternoon in the break room.

“Noah,” she snaps through gritted teeth.

Warmth floods my face, panic ricocheting through every nerve, and I rip my hand back. “I—shit, I didn’t—sorry—” My fingers rake through my own hair hard enough to sting, the ghost of her burning across my fingertips.

The fire in her eyes doesn’t falter. “You can’t touch me like that here.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” I blurt, stomach flipping wildly.

The machine beeps, steam curling between us, and she turns away, grabbing her mug.

“Then think next time,” she says as she rips open a pack of sugar and dumps it in.

“Right. Of course. You… you had a strand loose. I—” Wait. Did she just…

My chest stutters, pulse rattling through my bones as I set my mug back down on the counter.

“Sable,” I rasp. “Did you just say… here? I can’t touch you… here?”

The silence is brutal against the hum of the vending machine and the scrape of her spoon.

She stands stiff, stirring the sugar, but under it, there’s something else.

A pulse. A tension that isn’t anger, not entirely.

Something that tells me I’m not losing my fucking mind. Maybe I wasn’t rewriting the signals.

“Sable…”

“Drop it, Noah,” she says under her breath. “If you want to keep your job, keep your hands to yourself in the office.”

Heat twists through my blood. She could have said don’t touch me.

Could have said never. But she said ‘ in the office’.

She said ‘ in the office’ and ‘ here.’ That’s twice in less than two minutes.

My pulse thunders wildly. Definitely not losing my mind.

The thought that I might get to please her again has my cock aching against the inside of my slacks.

But I nod anyway. “Right,” I croak, throat desert-dry. “Dropping it.”

Her gaze lifts, locking onto mine. Her mouth parts slightly, like there are words perched right on the tip of her tongue. If she says anything else—anything at all—I swear I might shatter, right here on the break room floor.

After a minute, she sighs heavily. “Maybe we should talk tonight,” she says. “Come to my place after work.”

Then she brushes past me, the scent of vanilla trailing after her, leaving me stranded in the fluorescent hum with my pulse jackhammering in my throat.

I can’t move. I stay rooted to the spot, useless, tracking the sway of her hips as she slips through the doorway.

The tight pull of her skirt with every step.

The curve of her ass, the smooth line of her thighs, the way she doesn’t look back once.

I keep watching until she’s gone, swallowed by the cubicles, and the ache in my chest nearly doubles me over.

Tonight. She wants to see me tonight. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.