Page 15 of Crawl for Me

Noah

I haven’t slept. Not last night. Not the one before.

Not the one before that. One whole week, and my body’s fried, but my head won’t stop.

How could it, when every evening’s turned into the same loop—me at her door, her pulling me in, no preamble, no hesitation, just a sharp tug on my hair until I’m on my knees.

And then it’s hours. Hours with my face buried between her thighs, her wetness on my mouth, my tongue working until she’s thrashing, until she’s cursing me out with moans, until she’s clutching my head so tight I swear she’s going to scalp me.

Every gasp, every shudder, every time she jerks against my tongue and breaks. I fucking live for it.

When it’s done, she doesn’t shove me off or laugh me out the door. She keeps me there, sprawled across her stomach, while her fingers rake lazily through my hair and down my back, sinking into me with soft words I can’t stop replaying. “ Good boy. That’s good. You did so good for me.”

By the time I finally drag myself up, I’m wrecked. Stumbling into my apartment half-dizzy on her taste, cock aching, nerves fried, too wired to sleep and too far gone to care.

It’s killing me. I’m strung out, exhausted, fuzzy, drunk on her, and still—I can’t stop.

“Noah.”

My neck snaps up. Clipboard. Pencil. Marla . Shit . She’s planted herself right on the threshold of my office, glasses low on her nose, watching me like she’s caught me red-handed smuggling cocaine into the office.

“You’re looking rather chipper for a Monday morning,” she says, tapping the pencil against her clipboard. “Should I assume you’ve already run through this month's projections?”

Chipper . If she knew the reason I was grinning at my desk, she’d send me straight to HR with a bow on top.

I clear my throat, sitting up straighter, flipping the nearest file open like I’ve been buried in projections all along. “Yeah—yes. I mean, I’ve been through them. Twice.”

Her brow lifts over the rim of her glasses. “Good,” she says, drawing the word out, pencil scratching across her notes. “Because deadlines are crawling up our asses and I don’t want anyone slacking off.”

“No slacking,” I blurt, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. Slack-free since day one.”

“Conference room in ten,” she says, snapping her clipboard shut. “Entire account team will be there for full rundowns on active campaigns. Don’t be late.”

“Late?” I force an awkward smile. “No. Never. I’m pathologically early. Basically terminal.”

She stares at me, pencil hovering like she’s about to jot that down as an actual diagnosis, then pivots and stalks away.

My stomach flips hard enough I swear the coffee in it curdles. Conference room. Ten minutes. A whole table, the entire team, Marla breathing fire down our necks—and Sable, sitting right there. Right within reach. Which is its own kind of hell.

I grab my notes, shove my phone into my pocket, and cut through the bullpen, the clatter of keyboards and the drone of phones bleeding into the scrape of chairs and the murmur of voices already spilling upstairs from Conference Room Three.

Coffee hangs thick in the air when I step inside, and the whole table’s alive with shuffling papers and low talk.

There she is.

Halfway down the table, wedged between Sam and Eleanor, sleeves shoved to her elbows, tablet glowing under her hand as she taps the stylus against it, head angled slightly toward Sam, laughing at something he says.

Don’t look. Don’t stare. Just—sit.

The chair screeches as I drag it out, and I drop into it fast, flipping my notes open, clicking my pen twice. My eyes skim the same line twice, three times, the words blurring to nothing.

And still—I can hear her. That laugh again, tugging at the corner of my focus until I glance up like an idiot. She’s covering her mouth with the back of her hand, head tipping forward, shoulders shaking.

Fuck. She’s so pretty when she laughs.

Rules. Office is off-limits. No staring, no wanting, no touching.

The door swings open and the air shifts as Marla steps in, clipboard tucked under one arm, glasses glinting in the overhead light.

“Alright,” she says, shutting the room up. “I want updates clean and quick—no fluff, no detours. If there’s a problem, I’d better hear it now before it blows up next week.”

My spine straightens on reflex, head nodding along as she ticks through the list. Voices rise and fall around the table—Sam outlining projections, Eleanor flagging ad spend, a low ripple of figures and dates.

I jot notes, underline numbers, nod when the rest of them do, trying to look like the calm, collected account lead I’m supposed to be.

Marla’s eyes cut to me. “Noah. Rundown on your end.”

Right. My cue.

I clear my throat, slide my notes forward, and sit a little taller.

“Of course.” My voice holds steady—thank God.

“Engagement on Veylar’s pre-launch posts is tracking ten percent above benchmark.

Conversion ratios are steady, but I’ve recommended staggered pushes to smooth the traffic spikes.

” The words flow out smoothly, one after the other.

“Projected rollout stays on schedule if approvals hit by Friday. If procurement lags, I’ve built a contingency that keeps us within one week of target. ”

Marla doesn’t miss a beat. “And if they push approvals beyond that week?”

“Then we stagger creative in waves. Smaller spends, tighter targeting, keep the campaign warm until we get the green light.”

A low hum ripples around the table—pens scratching, chairs creaking as people jot notes. Marla nods once, already pivoting her gaze to the next person down the line, who immediately launches into a speech about procurement.

My phone buzzes once against my thigh.

I ignore it.

It buzzes again.

Who the hell’s texting me in the middle of the morning?

I keep writing, pen dragging figures across the page.

And then a third buzz, harder this time, insistent.

Maybe it’s an emergency. Shit.

I slide a hand under the table and fish my phone from my pocket, tilting the screen against my thigh.

Three new messages.

From her.

I look up quickly—half expecting her eyes on me—but no. She’s bent over her tablet, stylus moving across the glass, her mouth set in a firm line. Sam leans close to murmur something, and she nods, jotting it down.

I look back down and swipe the screen open anyway.

Oh, fuck.

My tongue dries up instantly, throat locking tight, cock pulsing against my slacks so hard I shift in the chair, knee bumping the underside of the table loud enough that a couple heads flick my way.

I force a quick cough to cover it, shoving the phone further under the lip of the table with now-slick fingers.

Delete it. No—save it. Don’t look again. Jesus Christ, don’t airdrop this to the projector. Focus. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck ? —

Did she even mean to send this? My head jerks up, eyes searching for her like maybe I’ll catch the slip in her face, some crack that says ‘ yes, that was for you.’

But she’s calm. Nonchalant. Elbow on the table, pen tapping soft against her tablet as she listens to the guy droning on about procurement timelines. Not a glance my way. Not so much as a twitch of an eyelid.

I suck in a breath, gravity and flesh drawing my eyes back down to the screen under the table.

Sable

Impressive delivery. Good job.

Here’s a treat.

*One image attached.*

It’s like she’s pulled me right into the stall with her. Cold marble behind her, the stainless steel paper dispenser blurred off in the corner. It’s too mundane, too ordinary, for something this obscene.

Her skirt’s shoved up high around her waist, bunched and wrinkled. The blouse hangs open to her ribs, bra yanked beneath the swell of her breasts, nipples tight and peaked against the wash of fluorescent light.

And her hand—two fingers buried inside her, wet gleam catching against the cheap bathroom tile. The way her knuckles shine, the tension in her wrist, like she’s fucking herself open for me.

Her mouth is parted, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, eyes locked straight on the camera.

I can’t drag my eyes off it. Every pixel’s pulling me in, my cock jerking against the fabric until I feel the unmistakable wet slip of pre-come leaking into my boxers.

Shit. Shit. My throat snaps dry, lungs locked, and I fumble to thumb the screen black before I give the whole table a show, shoving my phone back into my pocket like that might cauterize the damage.

No one’s looking. Not at me, not at anything but the guy still droning about procurement like the world’s dullest sermon.

Thank fuck.

But Christ—what the hell was that?

My eyes drag over to her. She’s just… sitting there. Calm. Nodding along as Sam leans in to whisper something in her ear. Is she really going to sit there like nothing happened? Like she didn’t just send me a picture that nearly made me come in my damn slacks?

“—Sable?” Marla’s voice cuts the air, and heads swivel.

Sable doesn’t miss a beat. She straightens, eyes on Marla.

“Engagement rates are tracking high for phase one, but conversion dips after forty-eight hours. We’re pushing targeted refreshes by Thursday to keep the audience hooked.

Procurement delays are still the bottleneck—we’re compensating with flexible rollouts so the schedule doesn’t collapse. ”

Perfect. Effortless. Like she didn’t?—

God.

The rest of the meeting blurs into numbers, projections, analytic chatter—all of it fuzzing into static as I sit there forcing my eyes anywhere but left.

But finally— thank fuck —Marla closes her binder.

Chairs scrape, papers shuffle, voices rise back into chatter, and everyone filters out in twos and threes down the hall.

I linger, pretending to rearrange my notes. Like that makes sense—like the same three pages need lining up ten times in a row. But I just want to see if she’ll look over. God help me, half of me’s hoping she does, the other half’s hoping she doesn’t.