Page 20 of Crawl for Me
Sable
Sable
Back corridor off the restrooms. Come find me. Ten minutes.
T he corridor is dim, tucked behind the restrooms where no one has a reason to pass—unless they’re lost or sneaking out.
Lit only by the dull red glow of the EXIT sign and a flickering overhead bulb.
From the bar, laughter and music bleed through the walls, muffled and distant.
I lean back against the wall, arms crossed, every nerve keyed up, waiting for the sound of his footsteps.
They come, soft and quick. He rounds the corner, a little breathless, like he ran here. “Sable…” he says, gaze dragging hungrily over me, from the hem of my dress to the fall of my hair over my shoulders.
My fist closes around his tie, yanking him in until the space between us collapses. “Was wondering if you’d show,” I murmur.
“That—fuck, Sable—” His voice cracks. “I almost—I mean, I thought I was gonna—” He cuts himself off with a rough laugh. “That nearly killed me. I’ve never—Christ, I’ve never had anyone do that to me.”
I fist his tie and drag him lower until my lips brush the shell of his ear. My voice is a whisper, sweet as poison. “I almost had you painting the inside of your slacks in front of all those people.”
“God—please, Sable. I’m desperate. Please.”
A hum curls up my throat. I nip down the line of his jaw, slow deliberate bites, savoring the way his breath stumbles ragged with every scrape of my teeth. His hands fly to my hips, clutching hard at the silk, fingers digging into the flesh.
My palm trails lower, lower, until I press it against the thick line of him through his slacks. His head falls to my shoulder with a guttural groan, muffled against my skin as his hips buck helplessly into the contact.
“If it’s too much, tap my wrist twice and I stop. Clear?”
He nods frantically. “Clear.”
“Good. Now, tell me,” I whisper, breath grazing his ear. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”
“Sable—fuck, please?—”
“Say it.” I dig my nails into his hip for emphasis. “Or I’ll walk away right now.”
He freezes. I can see the war of it in his eyes—panic and want—like the words are burning a hole in his throat and he can’t decide whether to choke on them or let them loose. His jaw works, teeth grinding, his whole body trembling under the weight of silence.
But all I have to do is raise one brow, and the dam breaks.
“Shit—Sable—I’d… God, I’d crawl under your skirt and never come back out.
I’d lick your pussy until my jaw locked—I don’t care—I’d keep going.
I’d drink you down until my throat burned and still beg for more.
I want you on my face— please, fuck —I want you grinding me into the floor until I can’t breathe.
I’d let you ride me until I’m choking on you, until I’m soaked, until I can’t even think my own name.
Christ, I—” His voice fractures, hips jerking against my hand.
“I don’t— fuck —I don’t care if I suffocate.
I just want you to ruin me. Right here. Right now. Please.”
The words hit me like a match to dry skin, a gasp ripping out of me. Heat floods low in my stomach, wetness pooling fast between my thighs. If he keeps talking like that, I might let him. I might drag him down to his knees right here under the EXIT sign.
“Uber back with me in twenty if?—”
“I can’t wait,” he growls. One hand hooks under the hem of my dress, bunching the silk around my hips like he needs me bare now or he’ll lose his mind.
His fingers shake as they fumble higher. “Shit—sorry—” he mutters, the words clumsy, useless, because he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
And then he’s past the lace, slipping beneath, sinking two thick fingers straight inside me. My body clenches tight around him, sharp enough to drag a sound out of my throat I have to bite back behind my teeth.
“Jesus, Sable,” he breathes, dragging a messy kiss across my jaw, driving into me again, deeper, knuckle brushing against my clit on the way out. “You’re—fuck—you’re soaked.”
My head tips back, shoulders pressing into the wall. He’s shaking against me, grinding his cock against my hip like he’s already breaking apart.
“That’s it, Noah,” I whisper, threading my hand into his hair, tugging tight until he whimpers against my throat. “Good boy. Show me how badly you need it.”
The sudden buzz rattling from my clutch nearly jolts me out of my skin.
I grit my teeth and ignore it, nails biting into his scalp as another moan breaks loose when his fingers drive deeper. The vibration stops—mercifully—but then starts again, annoying and far too loud.
“Fuck,” I hiss, fumbling with the clasp one-handed, trying not to drop the damn bag while his fingers are still buried inside me. I yank my phone free to see Eleanor’s name glaring across the screen.
I swipe to answer, chest heaving, voice barely steady. “What?”
“Sable? Thank God.” Her voice pours out fast and panicked. “Sam’s in the bathroom puking his guts out. I can’t get him up. Where the hell are you?”
Noah crooks his fingers, fucking them into me deeper.
Pleasure slices through me so hard I nearly drop the phone.
Oh, God—too good. My body arches against the wall, a breathy sound catching in my throat before I choke it back.
My thighs are shaking. My eyes squeeze shut and all I want is to let go, let him keep going, let?—
No. No. Not now.
I grab his wrist and shove his hand out of me, biting down a gasp I do not want Eleanor to hear. He blinks up at me, dazed and flushed, mouth parted, wet fingers trembling at his side.
“Be there in a minute,” I snap into the phone, then hang up and shove it back into my clutch. “Every damn time,” I mutter, trying to smooth my dress with hands that won’t stop shaking.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice rough.
I blow out a heavy breath. “Sam,” I say. “Drunk off his ass, probably. I guarantee he was doing shots with the guys from Price & Crane again. Every single time we’re at one of these things, it’s the same thing. You’d think he’d learn by now.”
“Uh—” he stutters, wiping his fingers across his slacks. “I’ll help.”
“It’s fine,” I say, smoothing my hair, ready to face whatever fresh hell is going on in the restrooms right now.
Noah straightens and clears his throat. “Sable—I’m helping.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me a look—jaw tight, eyes set in a way that won’t budge. His breath is still shaky from what we were just doing, but that look? It roots me right to the spot, doing something to me I don’t have time to unpack.
I blow out a sharp sigh and nod, turning down the corridor. “Fine.”
The hallway feels too bright after the dim corner we’d been pressed into. I peek around the bend— empty —and jerk my chin for him to follow.
We move fast, and a few seconds later, the silence of our shadowed heat is quickly replaced by the raw, ugly sound of someone retching in the restroom.
Perfect. Every damn time.
I shove open the restroom door and find Sam slumped against the sink.
His shirt collar’s soaked, half of it sticking to his neck, the other half splashed with something I really don’t want to identify.
He’s muttering nonsense to his reflection, eyes half-lidded, like he’s in deep philosophical conversation with the faucet, with Eleanor hovering right by him.
“Thank God ,” she says, turning the second she hears our footsteps. Her eyes flick up and down, pausing just a second too long on me. Then Noah. Then me again.
I don’t bite. I don’t even blink. I go straight for Sam and grab a wad of paper towels.
“Sam,” I mutter, crouching down beside him. “You’re a mess.”
“Heyyy,” he drawls, head lolling against the sink. “Sable’s here—brought the boss man, too.”
I roll my eyes, dabbing at his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. What was it this time?”
“S’just… tequila,” he slurs, dragging the word out.
Of course it was.
I sigh, swipe the damp towels across his chin and collar, and ball them up tight. “Tequila. Same old story. You’d think you’d learn.”
“Learning’s boring,” he says, then hiccups.
“Right.” I shake my head and glance up, already feeling Noah hovering close.
“Where does he live?” Noah asks, voice clipped but practical. “I can book him an Uber.”
I shake my head, tossing the paper towels in the trash. “He’s not going home like this. Can’t leave him on his own, not when he’s this far gone. I’ll bring him back to mine for the night.”
Noah’s already pulling his phone out. “Alright. I’ll get it sorted.”
Eleanor’s brow furrows. “Wait— what ? How do you know where?—”
Noah shrugs. “We live in the same building.”
Eleanor’s brows shoot up as she looks between us. “Oh? I didn’t know that… That’s interesting.”
I ignore her and press another towel into Sam’s floppy hand, shooting Noah a glance. “Can you help me get him up?”
“Yeah.” Noah slides the phone into his pocket, steps forward and crouches beside us, looping one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder.
I take the other side, and between the two of us we get him upright.
Sam mutters something incoherent into Noah’s shoulder.
Noah shoots me a look over his head—eyebrows raised, the faintest twitch of a smile—and I almost laugh despite myself.
“Alright,” I say, adjusting Sam’s deadweight arm across my shoulder. “Let’s get him out of here before he redecorates the floor and Marla ends up getting fined or sued or sacrificed to the event gods. I’ll catch you on Monday, Eleanor.”
Eleanor huffs out a tired laugh, but she doesn’t follow. Noah and I drag Sam toward the back exit, his feet half-dragging, half-shuffling along the tile.
We get him into the Uber without too much struggle and he slumps between us. His head lolls from side to side, occasionally thunking against my shoulder, then Noah’s.