Page 26 of Crawl for Me

Sable

C hewing and shoveling food into my mouth at a borderline dangerous pace is apparently the best distraction for unnecessary, annoying-as-fuck thoughts.

It gives your hands something to do and keeps your mouth too busy for stupid thoughts to slip out.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I jam in another overloaded forkful of cold noodles—my fifth? sixth? Who’s counting?

Hot, sticky soy sauce drips onto my thigh and I smear it away with the sleeve of my hoodie. The couch cushion sags beneath me as I shift again, sliding lower into the abyss. Even the furniture feels over it tonight.

I grab my wine glass and drain the whole thing in one go, slamming it back onto the coffee table.

“I’m not even bothered,” I mutter to the TV, voice flat. “I don’t even care.”

Liar. Yes, you do.

A groan tears out of me as I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand. “Stop it, Sable.”

The fork clatters out of my grip into the carton, tipping it sideways across the table. Soy-slick noodles spill over the rim, staining the glass top. I stare at the mess, blinking slowly. Whatever. I’ll clean it tomorrow. Or I won’t. Who gives a shit?

You do.

Okay, apparently I’ve graduated to arguing with myself. Congratulations, me.

I hiss through my teeth and throw my head back against the cushions. “Oh my God.”

We haven’t spoken outside of work in days. No texts. No knocks. Just tension in meetings and avoidance in hallways, like we’re both pretending we don’t remember exactly how good it feels when we’re together.

But I freaked. Of course I did. Because this —whatever it was—wasn’t supposed to leave the apartment, let alone crawl into our inboxes, tangle itself up in spreadsheets and timelines and desk chairs.

So I distanced myself. Shoved Noah away. Held him at arm's length as best I could all damn week. And now here I am, alone on a Saturday night, shoveling noodles into my mouth like I’m trying to drown the quiet.

Have I spent two nights glancing at the door like it might open if I just stare hard enough? Have I listened—really listened—for the creak of the floorboards outside my door? The soft, hesitant knock that comes after he’s waited for a few seconds, collecting his nerves?

Of course I fucking have.

Not that I miss him. I do.

Not that I want to feel his mouth on me again. I really, really do.

But am I also painfully, excruciatingly aware that it’s entirely my fault that none of those things have happened?

Yes. Yes, I am.

I reach for the half-empty bottle of wine and tip it straight back, draining the last few mouthfuls. Screw the noodles. Screw everything else. Let the soy sauce weld itself to the carton overnight, let the fork rust in there for all I care.

“God, you’re a petulant fucking child,” I mumble, dragging myself upright from the couch with all the grace of a drunk baby deer.

Clothes get peeled off one by one on the way to the bedroom.

Hoodie to the hallway floor. Socks somewhere by the door.

Bra draped across the lamp. I kick my jeans and underwear off at the foot of the bed, climb in, and pull the duvet up over my head like I’m six years old hiding from the monsters under the bed—and not the one curled somewhere inside my ribcage, gnawing and stubborn and shaped suspiciously like longing.

I toss. Shift. Sigh. Flop to one side. Roll back again.

It’s too warm, then too cold. The sheets are too tight, then too loose. My body won’t fucking settle. It’s too strung up on all my bullshit to just relax.

I drag my phone off the nightstand and squint at the screen, thumb hovering over the messages app like some idiot teen waiting to see if her crush has texted. He hasn’t. Obviously. Why would he?

Should I text him? Just a hey. A nothing.

No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. I shouldn’t.

But I open the thread anyway. Just to look and scroll. There’s no harm in that, right? Right?

Our words line the screen, weeks of them.

Snatched quips, clipped work updates that bled too easily into teasing.

Multiple ‘ Can I come overs.’ I scroll slower, caught in the undertow of it—remembering each ping of my phone, each smirk I tried to bite back, each time his name on the screen made my stomach flip.

And then—there it is.

That picture. His cock in the center of the screen. Gorgeous, thick, heavy in his hand, veins pronounced, tip flushed a little darker, pre-come glistening. Fuck.

“Fuck,” I whisper, breath catching.

A slow pulse coils low in my belly, heat dripping down between my thighs. My legs shift restlessly under the blanket, trying to ease the ache. It doesn’t work.

Because I know that cock. Know the feel of it dragging through my soaked pussy, the weight of it against my tongue, the stretch of it splitting me open until I couldn’t form words.

I know the sound he makes when I clench around him.

The hiss between his teeth. The breathy little whimpers that slip out when I grind down hard and milk every last drop from him.

I toss the phone face down on the mattress, but it’s too late. The image is burned behind my eyelids. My hips shift again, searching for friction, and a soft, frustrated whine slips from my throat.

Don’t do it.

But I’m already shifting—rolling onto my stomach, dragging the sheets down, heart thudding in my throat. Cool air kisses against my skin as I reach between my thighs, fist the blanket, and tug it up tight against my pussy, soft cotton rubbing right where I need it the most.

Just a little friction. Enough to take the edge off. That’s all I need.

I roll my hips, dragging my clit over the sheet in one slow, aching stroke, with enough pressure to make my breath hitch.

I do it again, and again, each movement sending a ripple of heat through me.

Then my hand slides down between my stomach and the mattress, until I find the wet mess there.

I circle once, rolling my clit beneath the soft pad of my fingertip, hips jerking at the contact.

It isn’t enough. God, it isn’t even close.

I reach for the nightstand blindly, half-wedged against the mattress as I fumble across the surface. My wrist knocks against a bottle of lotion, sending it clattering across the floor, and I curse under my breath, shifting onto my hands and knees, dragging the sheet with me.

Then—finally—my fingers close around smooth silicone, tucked right behind the lamp.

Found it.

I shift up onto my knees, dragging a pillow into place with one hand, the other still clutching the toy like a lifeline. It takes a second to get it where I want it—angled just right, wedged between my thighs. I flick it on to the highest setting with no hesitation.

The low buzz hums through the fabric, straight into my palm. My whole body pulses in answer.

I sink down slowly, settling my hips over it until the tip presses flush against my entrance, the shaft grinding between my lips, catching perfectly on my clit.

Oh fuck .

I grasp for my phone, flipping it over with shaking fingers until that picture lights up the screen again—God, he was so fucking hard for me.

My breath stumbles into sharp, broken gasps as I grind down harder, hips rocking in a messy, frantic rhythm. The pillow catches, the toy pressed tight against my clit, each movement sending another jolt of raw electricity through me.

“I—anything. Any way you want. I’m yours to use. I—fuck, Sable—I just want you.”

My eyes flutter shut, chest heaving. Oh, God—I’m soaking the pillow.

“I’m gonna—shit—I’m gonna lose it the second you’re on me. Fuck—fuck—I won’t be able to hold it.”

Yes. Yes, fuck, yes.

I pick up the rhythm—harder, faster—hips snapping like I’m fucking him for real. Like he’s pinned under me, cock buried deep, mouth slack, fists twisting in the sheets while I ride him like a goddamn toy, using him exactly how I want.

My clit grinds hard against the vibrator, every motion sending sparks straight through me. Wetness spills down my thighs, soaking the fabric, every drag of friction hotter than the last. I rut against it with shameless, filthy desperation, panting, chasing it.

It builds low and tight, heat curling in my belly, hips moving faster, messier, harder. I hump the pillow like a fucking animal, clit swollen and aching, nerves screaming for it, needing it.

“Fuck—fuck—” I gasp, white-knuckling the sheets.

And then it crashes into me—tearing through me with a full-body shatter that rips the air out of my lungs. My pussy clenches around nothing, throbbing with every wave as I grind down one more time, then again, riding it out through gritted teeth and broken moans.

I click the vibrator off and slump forward, kicking the soaked pillow onto the floor. And for a minute, I just breathe.

It doesn’t feel satisfying—not even close. No relief, no calm, just the strange, quiet vacuum of wanting something I can’t have.

Eventually, I flop onto my back and tug the covers halfway up, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention—or at least a halfway decent excuse for why I can’t stop emotionally spiraling over orgasms and office tension.

A groan slips out as I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

This is for the best. This is definitely, unquestionably, for the best .

But… he was right about what he said on the way to that meeting. I still want him anyway.

And I hate that, I hate that so fucking much.

I’m a mess with a big tangle of shame and want knotted together so tight in my chest I have no idea how I’m even going to attempt to pry them apart.

So instead, I bury my face in the pillow like cotton could smother a confession and I breathe until my lungs ache.

It isn’t until I’m finally drifting off that a knock cuts through the apartment. I jolt, heart skipping at least three beats, head snapping up.

And then there’s another knock—softer this time.

Oh, God.