Page 16 of Crawl for Me

There. A flicker. Her eyes cut across the table, catching mine. Just for a second—long enough to see the faintest curve of a smirk on her lips before she turns, tablet under her arm, and slips out with Sam at her side.

I scoop my notes up and move, following the current of bodies out of the conference room, down the corridor, down the stairwell, pulse hammering the whole way.

Through the bullpen, past the hum of keyboards and the ring of phones, straight into my office.

The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the noise, and I finally let the breath rip out of my chest. I twist the lock with shaking fingers and slam the blinds down hard.

Privacy. Just two minutes before I fall apart.

My fingers catch at the knot of my tie, tugging it loose until the silk slips slack. I work at the top button with clumsy hands, slipping it open, then another, until the collar eases back from my throat.

“Jesus Christ,” I rasp under my breath, sinking down into my chair.

The phone’s already in my hand like I never let it go. The screen burns hot against my palm. That picture’s still there— filthy, seared into the back of my eyes—and my thumb drags across the glass slowly, like I might feel her wetness through it.

Blood rushes to my cock, hard enough to hurt, straining against my slacks.

All I can think about is what she’d make me do if I were kneeling in front of her right now.

Tongue pressed deep until my jaw ached, hands behind my back like a good boy while she rocked against my face.

Or bent over her couch, shoving my hips forward, desperate, begging for permission to come.

I type before I can think myself out of it.

Noah

You aren’t playing fair.

I sit there, thumb hovering, dragging over the edge of that photo like I could touch her through it as the three dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.

Sable

It’s just a picture. Don’t tell me you’re falling apart over a JPEG?

A broken laugh punches out of me, rough and useless. My thumbs trip over themselves.

Noah

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The dots flicker. Vanish. Come back. Vanish again. She’s stringing me along, and my pulse is hanging on every beat.

Sable

Maybe I did.

Or maybe you just can’t handle it.

Noah

You’re cruel.

Sable

Cruel? No. I’m generous.

Now quit sulking. Show me you can play.

Show her I can play?

My chest lurches, pulse trying to claw its way out through my ribs.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

How the hell am I supposed to do this?

Her picture was sexy. Nobody in the history of the world has ever opened a picture of a dick and thought, ‘ wow, art.’ They’re all the same—bad lighting, awkward angles, meat and veins that look exactly like…

well… meat and veins. There’s nothing sexy about them.

Nothing redeemable. Just raw material that looks like it should be shrink-wrapped and shoved in the back of a butcher’s fridge.

But she told me to play. And if she wants it— fuck —I’ll try. Because it’s her. Because if she told me to draw it in crayon and mail it around the world before it hit her desk, I’d dig out a box of crayons and go to town.

Right. Angles. Lighting.

I shove my chair back, unbuckle my belt, and shove my slacks and boxers down far enough to free myself. My cock’s already straining, flushed dark, aching from the thought of her seeing it.

Straight-down shot?

I hold the phone over me and snap a picture.

Christ, no. That looks like a weird biology exhibit or something you’d see in a medical pamphlet called ‘ Male Health Issues—Your Penile Health.’

I slump lower in the chair, hips sliding forward, tilting the camera up from below. Better. Almost impressive, actually. Fuck, my dick looks huge like this. Then sanity catches up. No. Absolutely not. Delete.

I groan under my breath, drag a hand over my face, and try again. From the side. From the front. Each one’s worse than the last—too shadowy, too awkward, too try-hard.

I perch on the edge of my desk, back to the glass windows, phone angled down.

My free hand wraps tight around the base, squeezing until a slick bead of pre-come pearls at the tip.

That’s it. That’s what she’d want to see.

Proof. That she does this to me. That I’m wrecked for her, hard and leaking in the middle of my fucking office.

Just do it, Noah.

The photo sends with a whoosh , the bubble hanging there like a death sentence.

Delete the message.

No. Too late. The little “delivered” checkmark stares back at me like the smug bastard it is.

Pretend it never happened .

Yeah. Sure. Just… throw my phone out the window, crawl under the desk, fake my own death.

Maybe HR will draft a tasteful memorial email.

‘Rest in peace to our senior account lead, Noah Calloway, who died in a tragic accident. Poor bastard tried to take a sexy picture of his dick and didn’t survive the shame. ’

The screen blinks, a new bubble appearing. My pulse spikes, bile licking up the back of my throat.

Sable

Better.

Now we’re playing.

Don’t you dare stroke it until I tell you to.

My cock’s still in my hand, flushed dark, the tip gleaming as pre-come slips slowly over my knuckles. It throbs hungrily, but I force it back into my boxers, pull my slacks back up, and buckle my belt.

Because just like that, I’m ruined—sweating through my shirt, shaking, grinning like an idiot, playing her game, and so hard I swear I’m going to have a zipper-shaped bruise branded into me for weeks.