Page 13 of Crawl for Me

Sable

I sink into the couch, fiddling with the loose drawstring on my sweats, winding it tighter, then letting it go again. My head’s a knot.

Saturday was cars and calls and oil-stained receipts.

The mechanic sucked half my savings straight into his register, but at least the engine’s not about to explode anymore.

Sunday was brunch with the girls—mimosas, gossip, someone’s new engagement ring sparkling under the cafe lights.

After that it was groceries, laundry, dishes, the whole carousel of domestic bullshit.

Which sounds productive, but it was avoidance.

Plain and simple. I dodged him all weekend like some kind of coward.

Like a hypocritical asshole. “Don’t touch me, Noah.

We can’t, we have to keep this clean.” And then what?

Telling him to shove his fingers into me in the front seat of his car while the streetlights cut shadows across my thighs.

If hypocrisy had a patron saint, I’d be canonized by now.

And the worst part is—this is what I wanted, isn’t it?

A man who actually gave a shit about whether I got off.

Someone who listens, who’s eager enough to tremble when I tell him to do something—and who does it.

Perfectly. He turns me on just by moving and existing in the same damn room, like his pulse alone is tuned to mine.

So what the hell is wrong with me?

I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do until this morning in the break room, when he reached out and brushed my hair back.

My chest almost cracked open with it. I should’ve slapped his hand away.

I should’ve doubled down on the rules. Instead, the words that came out of my mouth weren’t “ stop ” or “forget it.” They were— “not here.” They were— “Come to my place after work.”

The knock rattles through the apartment, jolting me. I drag my palms down my thighs, force a breath in, and make myself move, up, past the couch, down through the narrow stretch of hall. By the time I reach the door, my shoulders are squared, my face is set, and I pull it open.

Noah’s on the other side like he’s reporting for execution—shoulders locked way too tight, hair ruffled, both fists clamped around a bottle of wine.

His mouth twitches into a nervous smile when my eyes land on it. “I—uh—thought it might help. Thanks for… inviting me. I’m not really sure what’s going on, but—thanks.”

God, he looks jittery.

I huff a soft laugh. “Relax.” Then I step aside, waving him in, nudging the door shut behind us. His shoes scuff across the floor as I lead him into the living room, and his gaze drops—straight to the table, where two glasses and an unopened bottle are already waiting.

“Damage control,” I say, sinking into the couch and gesturing at the empty space beside me. “I figured you might need it.”

He hovers a second, then sinks down beside me, bottle still clutched to his chest. I pluck it from his hands, twist the cork free, and pour us both a glass.

“Breathe, Noah,” I say, watching his fingers slip clumsily over the glass stem as I pass it to him. “I asked you here to talk. I’m not about to shove you out the window if you say something stupid.”

His laugh breaks sharp in his throat, boyish and nervous, and then he tips the glass like it’s water, draining half before setting it back down with a thud.

“This is a mess,” I murmur, leaning back into the couch.

He exhales hard, knuckles of his free hand tightening against his thigh. Poor thing looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel just from sitting on my couch.

Alright. Chin up. Chest out. We’re doing this, Sable. Spit it out.

I let out a heavy breath. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

His head jerks up so fast it’s almost comical, eyes widening. “Wh—what? What do you mean?”

I roll the stem of my glass between my palms, eyes on the wine instead of him. “I mean exactly what you think I mean. I want you. And you clearly want me. Unless the way you had your hand buried in me in the front seat was you practicing your penmanship?”

His breath catches, ears flushing red. “I—yeah, I do, I really do, but you… you said not to. You said HR and the rules and?—”

“Fuck what I said.” My gaze lifts, pinning him in place. “We can dodge the mess if we’re careful. Rules, discretion, no witnesses. I can work with that. What I can’t do is sit here and pretend I don’t want you when my body already made it very very clear in your car that I do.”

His hand twitches, like he doesn’t know whether to set the glass down or cling to it, and then he does the dumbest, sweetest thing—he gives a single, raw nod.

I take a deep drink of my own wine. “We can try,” I say, softer this time. “If it starts to cost us, we fix it. But there’s one thing we can’t dodge, Noah. Honesty. So if we’re doing this, then you have to be straight with me.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he twists glass in his hands.

“Be honest,” I say, leaning forward. “What do you want from me ?”

His gaze meets mine, wide and frantic. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” My voice stays low and steady. “If we’re going to do this—whatever this is—I need to know. What do you want?”

His chest stutters. “I… I just want to please you.” The words tumble out in a rush. “That’s it. That’s all I want. I don’t care if it’s once, or a hundred times, or if it never goes anywhere beyond this—I… I want to make you feel good.”

Oh.

Well. That’s… interesting.

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it thrums. I sip my wine, slow, letting the taste sit on my tongue while I watch him squirm.

Of course. Of course that’s what he wants. It’s written all over him every time he fumbles, every time he blurts out a half-stammered sentence, every time he looks at me like he’s starving. But hearing it out loud, stripped bare like that—no excuses, no polish…

It’s not sweet. It’s not romantic. It’s need. Pure, unfiltered need.

And Christ, it lands. Low in my stomach, hot in my blood, curling around my ribs, flooding between my thighs.

My thumb drags idly along the stem of my glass, eyes fixed on his flushed face, the uneven breaths puffing out of him in shallow draws.

His voice cracks softer, spilling in pieces. “You wouldn’t even have to do anything in return. I mean, I’d want you to, God, I’d want you to, but if all you ever did was just… let me—” His words fracture, his face flushing deep. “It’s enough. That’s enough for me.”

Oh, well that’s really fucking interesting.

Breathe, Sable.

He’d take nothing from me—nothing but the permission to give. No demands, no balance sheet, no scorekeeping. Just that raw, reckless eagerness to put his hands on me, to unravel me, and call it enough.

My pulse spikes, heat dragging low, thick and heavy until I have to squeeze my thighs together to keep still.

The stem of my glass wobbles between my fingers, slick with sweat.

I tip it higher, letting the wine burn my throat, because if I don’t—if I let myself linger on his words any longer in this moment—I’m going to drag him down right here and ride him until that desperate little mouth forgets how to form apologies.

And— fuck , the way he’s looking at me—like I’m holy, like I’m lethal, like I’m both—it makes my skin prickle with the need to test him. To see how far that hunger really goes.

“Say something,” he blurts suddenly, voice breaking. “ Please .”

I cough, and shake my head once, trying to clear the static sparking in my chest. He’s still staring. Wide-eyed. Jittering with nerves but refusing to look away.

“That’s all you want?” My voice is steady, though my breath isn’t. “Nothing in return?”

He nods again. “Yes.”

I should stop there. I should. But the wicked part of me—the part that can’t resist prodding the edges of this thing until it splits—leans in closer, glass dangling loose between my fingers.

“So if I told you to drop to your knees right now,” I murmur, “you’d do it. You’d call that enough?”

A violent, pink flush floods his neck. “Y-yes.”

My stomach flips, and suddenly I can’t breathe right. Fuck. I’m breathless from nothing more than the sheer weight of his desperation.

I force myself back against the couch, glass rattling faintly as I set it down before my grip betrays me. “Then we need rules,” I say, steady enough that it almost sounds like I’m not two seconds from combusting. “Precautions.”

“Anything. Just—anything. Whatever you want,” he stutters out before he tips the rest of his wine back in one heavy swallow.

I lean across the table, snag the bottle, refill both glasses, and take another swallow from mine to keep the edge off.

“The office is off-limits,” I say, meeting his eyes over the rim.

“No touching. No brushing my hair out of my face in the break room. No staring at me like you’re starving in front of Marla.

You so much as breathe wrong in the bullpen, and I’ll shut this down. ”

He nods fast. “Yes. Of course. I can do that.”

“Good.” I tip my glass, wetting my lips before the next strike. “Rule two. If you want something, you say it. Out loud. No games, no swallowing it down until you choke. No guesswork.”

“Okay.” He nods. “I can do that. I will.”

“One more,” I say, lifting a finger. “You want to please me? Fine. But I’m not lifting a finger if you’re miserable. If this ever stops working for you, you open your mouth and say it. Clear?”

“Yes,” he breathes. Then again, firmer. “Yes.”

The way he’s looking at me—like I’ve written the word of God instead of a basic boundary—makes something coil hot and low in my stomach.

I lean back into the cushions, swirling the wine in my glass. “Relax, Calloway. I’m not about to have you sign in blood. Keep things clear, and we’ll be fine.”

For a second, I think we’re done—rules set, boundaries fixed. But then he shifts, glass wobbling faintly in his grip, lips parting and closing again.

“I… I have a rule too,” he says quietly.

I tilt my head. “Oh?”