Page 19 of Crawl for Me

Noah

T he knot in my tie is crooked. I drag it tighter, loosen it, then smooth my thumb over the silk again, glaring at myself in the bathroom mirror like that’s going to fix anything. My reflection stares back—flushed cheeks, collar skewed, hair I should’ve trimmed last week.

Here he is—the senior account lead, polished up for the quarterly dog-and-pony show.

Marla says these client mixers are good for us.

Apparently they do one every few months at this firm.

Networking, visibility, opportunities—like any of that feels real in practice.

From what I can tell, it’s just another excuse to pour top-shelf liquor into already-rich men and let everyone lie to each other about how well the quarter went.

She says it’s important. She says I should show my face, shake hands, smile like I mean it.

I lean on the sink, hands pressed flat to the cool porcelain.

My jaw’s too tight, my eyes a little too dark, like I’m bracing for impact instead of cocktails and canapés.

I should be thinking about numbers, handshakes, polite smiles.

Not about the fact that a few nights ago, Sable was spread out on my desk with her hand between her thighs.

Not about how I came so hard into my own fist I nearly blacked out while she whispered ‘ good boy ’ like it meant something.

The door creaks open and footsteps echo against the tiles as a guy in a navy suit walks in, phone to his ear, heading right for the stalls. I straighten immediately, smoothing my jacket.

That’s your cue to leave.

I slip out, into the current of bodies and voices. Everyone here looks like they know the script—glasses lifted, jokes landing easily, handshakes sliding into business cards.

The sound swells the second I step further in.

A jazz trio drones somewhere off to the side, saxophone soft and lazy, threading into the clink of glassware.

My eyes flick around the room, bouncing off polished shoes and sequined dresses, and the weight in my stomach only sinks lower.

What the hell am I supposed to do? Circle the floor shaking hands until I pass out? I’m out of my depth here. Completely.

Shit. Sable.

She’s there—at the bar, half-turned away, a sweep of dark fabric draped low across her back, the curve of her spine catching under the chandelier light.

Her hair tumbles loose, dark, glossy waves spilling over bare shoulders, and she’s laughing at something Sam just said.

Eleanor leans in with her, the three of them tucked into their own pocket of warmth while the whole damn room tilts toward her like it always does.

She’s beautiful. Even from behind, she’s still so damn beautiful.

Before I know it, I’m moving. Threading through clusters of people with smiles that don’t reach their eyes, past the murmur of conversations I don’t care to understand.

Sam spots me first, grin splitting across his face. “Hey, boss man,” he calls, already reaching back to snag a flute off the bar.He presses it into my hand before I can refuse. “Here, drink up. Night’s young.”

“Thanks,” I manage, fingers curling around the cold stem.

Sable turns at the sound of my voice, just slightly, just enough for the light to catch the edge of her cheekbone, the pout of her lips, the flutter of her lashes.

And it’s stupid, how fast everything inside me reacts—like my chest forgets how to hold breath and I’m standing there blinking like I’ve never even seen a woman before.

Don’t stare. Don’t let it show.

“You seeing this?” Sam elbows me lightly, a teasing grin in his voice. “She looks good, right, boss man?”

I cough into the rim of my glass, nearly choking on the bubbles. “Uh—yeah. Yep.”

Smooth. Real inconspicuous, Noah.

Eleanor rolls her eyes, muttering something about men being hopeless, and Sam cracks another line I don’t catch. Because I’m far too busy trying not to look at Sable’s mouth again. Or her collarbones. Or the way her fingertips are wrapped around her champagne glass.

I want to tilt her face up. Want to kiss her senseless. Want to back her into the nearest wall and swallow every last breath out of her until we both forget our own names. Drag her out of this room and into someplace dark where I don’t have to pretend.

A chime pings through the room, followed by a voice over the speaker system. “Dinner will be served shortly. Please begin making your way to the tables.”

Sam tips back the last of his champagne and sets the glass down with a flourish. “You should sit with us,” he says, already steering Eleanor toward the dining room.

My thumb drags over the condensation on my own glass.

I could say no. I should say no. But then what?

Go find a table alone and pretend I don’t see her all night?

Pretend I’m not already drowning just standing here beside her?

Then I’d look like an ass too, when my own team’s asking me to sit with them.

My brain scrambles for an out and comes up blank.

It’s fine. Just dinner. Stop acting like this is a firing squad.

“Yeah—okay,” I manage, forcing my mouth into something that feels almost like a smile.

We move with the flow of bodies through the glittering room. Sable falls into step beside me. Too close. Her shoulder brushes my arm, that damn vanilla scent slipping under my skin as she leans in. “You look really good tonight, Noah.”

My stomach flips so hard it nearly empties out the champagne.

Oh, God. Don’t stumble. Don’t flush.

“Uh—thanks,” I murmur into my drink. “So do you.”

We reach the table. Sam pulls out chairs for both Eleanor and Sable with a half-bow that earns him a matching set of eye-rolls before he collapses into his own seat between them.

I slide in next to Sable, the air charged the second I settle.

Her bare arm brushes mine as she shifts, the whisper of silk skating higher over her thighs.

I can’t help it—my eyes follow, catch the slow crossing of her legs, the dress tugging enough to hint at the strip of skin above her knee.

I snap my gaze away before I burn a hole through the fabric.

“Hey. I’m from Finance,” the guy on my other side says, offering a hand with a wide grin. “Liam.”

I clasp his hand quick, hoping my palm isn’t clammy, but grateful for the momentary distraction. “Noah. Senior account lead.”

And that’s when it hits—heat searing up my calf, the sharp tick of a heel running the length of it under the table. My breath stutters, vision tilting, and I almost miss Liam launching into something about projection cycles.

Focus. Smile. Don’t look at her. Don’t let anyone see.

I manage to nod, even scrape together a vague response despite my skull ringing with each heartbeat. Servers sweep in with the first course—bowls steaming, silver clinking—and I can barely remember how to hold a spoon, let alone string sentences together as Liam rambles on about quarterly figures.

Spoons clink against porcelain. Conversation rises in easy waves.

Sable leans slightly forward, talking to someone across the table, her laughter light, completely unaffected.

Her heel, though, is merciless—dragging slow lines up and down my leg.

Torture. Holy, perfect torture. I force down a mouthful, trying to chew, when her hand slides onto my thigh.

The shock is enough to lodge food in my throat. And I choke, actually choke around it, coughing with my fist pressed against my chest.

Liam swivels toward me, brows raised. “You good there?”

“Yeah,” I rasp, snatching for my water glass and forcing down a swallow. “Just... went down the wrong way.”

He chuckles, turning back to his bowl. The table hums on, oblivious, and Sable’s hand doesn’t move.

It stays exactly where it is, palm spread over my thigh like she owns it, like she isn’t sitting in a crowded dining room full of coworkers and clients.

She doesn’t so much as glance at me—just keeps talking across the table, her laugh soft and controlled.

But my pulse is in my ears. My collar’s sticking to the back of my neck. And every nerve in me is focused on that single point of contact, the pressure of her palm flexing, her nails teasing slow arcs through the fabric.

By the time the servers sweep back in with the main course, I’m holding it together with spit and prayer and the thinnest thread of composure I’ve ever faked in my life.

My knuckles are welded bone-white around the cutlery, a smile nailed into place while my lungs fight for air.

Because her hand’s been climbing, slow and merciless, creeping up inch by inch.

And now her fingertips are resting right beneath the heavy strain under my slacks.

I don’t think I’m breathing anymore. Unless shallow wheezing counts. Which—sure, it probably does. But it feels more like dying in instalments.

She tips her glass back, laughing at something Sam’s just cracked, the sound sliding right under my skin. And then—like it’s nothing, like it’s part of the same damn movement—her hand settles over my cock.

My fork scrapes across the porcelain with a harsh metal shriek. My shoulders jerk up, head turning. No one's looking—thank Christ. Everyone’s carrying on, cracking jokes about the holiday party budget, the whole side of the table in stitches while Liam slaps his hand against the tablecloth.

“Breathe, Noah.” Her murmur slips right under the noise, thumb circling lazily over the head of my cock. “Sit still. Smile.”

I try. God, I try. My lungs stutter, my fork trembles in my grip, and all I can think about is how badly I want to obey.

How badly I want to prove I can. But all I want to do is spread my thighs wider under the table, give her better access, let her ruin me in front of everyone.

I want to beg her to keep going—to unzip me right here and make me buck until I’m spilling right into her hand.

But I nod, plaster on a smile, and grab my wine instead, swallowing hard around the pitiful sound clawing its way up my throat. The glass wobbles against my lip, half a second from spilling down my shirt.

“What do you think, Noah?” Liam cuts in, still chuckling, eyes bright with expectation.

My head jerks up. Four pairs of eyes on me—minimum. I clear my throat and force out the first thing I can. “Uh—yeah. Absolutely.”

“Perfect.” He grins wide, clapping me on the shoulder. “Cards, drinks, no spreadsheets allowed. You’re in. I’ll CC you on the group email when we’ve got a date.”

Group email? Cards? What the fuck did I just sign up for—poker night? Beer pong? A goddamn bachelor party? For all I know, I’ve agreed to swap kidneys in some back alley. Doesn’t matter. Because right then Sable squeezes me again, harder, nails digging in, and my brain shorts out in pure static.

Liam’s still talking—something about a buy-in, someone always folding too early, bringing “actual whiskey this time, none of that watered-down crap.”

Staff drift in and out, lifting plates, refilling wine, the whole performance seamless as clockwork. I mumble a thanks when my glass is topped off, but my voice feels distant, not my own. Because all I can focus on is the wet ache underneath her palm.

God. My boxers are wet. I’m—Christ, I’m leaking. She has to know. She knows. She’s going to feel it, she’s ? —

When her own glass is filled, she shifts forward, reaching for it with her free hand. “I can feel how messy you are already,” she murmurs, sugar-sweet as her hair brushes over my shoulder. “You’re being so, so good for me.”

Her heel hooks around my ankle, tugging my legs apart under the table. Then her hand shifts—the heel of her palm presses flat over the head of my cock, grinding down in slow, torturous circles. My leg jerks under the linen, calf trembling against hers.

Fuck. No. No, no, no. I’m going to come. Right here. In my slacks. At a goddamn work dinner with clients and colleagues laughing about budgets not three feet away.

The pressure is unbearable—heat rolling through me in waves, thighs twitching, stomach drawn tight like a bowstring ready to snap. My skin’s burning, cheeks hot, breath shallow. Humiliation mixes with something darker, sharper.

I don’t even care. Not if she keeps—closer, closer, right there, right there ? —

And then it stops.

Her hand slips away just as the ground tilts under me, leaving me gasping, stranded on the edge. I bite down on the groan clawing up my throat and twist it into a cough, snatching a napkin off the table and pressing it hard over my mouth.

The noise swells back around me all at once, the low thrum of the jazz trio bleeding back into focus, conversations colliding from every corner, servers weaving between tables, Liam going off about his whiskey stash on one side of me, Sam firing another joke that sets their side off in brazen laughter.

I glance sideways. Sable’s sipping her wine, eyes bright, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

People start rising, chairs scraping back, drifting into looser knots of chatter around the room.

The energy hums, wine warm in everyone’s veins.

I open my mouth, ready to say something— anything —but Sam hooks an arm through hers, pulling her up from her chair, and Eleanor follows, the three of them slipping off into the crowd before I can move.

No, she can’t go like that.

I push up from my chair, ready to follow, when a heavy hand lands between my shoulder blades. “Noah!”

I turn, and there’s Simon from Cos, grinning like we’re old pals, hand thrust out, two more suits flanking him with eager nods. “Come meet my team.”

The trap snaps shut before I can dodge it.

They sweep me into their circle, and suddenly I’m shaking hands, smiling on autopilot, nodding at names I’ll forget before the wine in my glass runs out.

Voices blur, cards exchange hands, questions fire— “What’s your background?

How are you finding the transition?” —and I answer like a good little account lead, polished and presentable.

She’s there, just beyond reach, dark silk cutting low across her back as she moves with Sam and Eleanor into the throng. The light catching the line of her spine, each step pulling her further into the swell of sequins and glassware until the crowd swallows her whole.

And I’m pinned here, choking on pleasantries, when all I can think about is how one more stroke—just one—would’ve had me humiliating myself in front of a room of clients and colleagues.