Page 29 of Crawl for Me
Sable - Six Months Later
T he TV flickers low across the room—some documentary about shipwrecks or black holes or something else with ominous narration and slow cinematic pans.
Noah picked it. I wasn’t really paying attention, haven’t been for a while.
I’m scrolling through work emails, half-focused, glass of wine sweating on the table beside me, inbox chewing through my Saturday night like it’s got teeth.
My inbox dings again and I flick open the notification, eyes half-squinted in the dim lamplight. Just one more flagged item—one last edit pass on the Lark & Dune brief before Monday.
“Turn it off,” Noah murmurs from where he’s sprawled out on the couch beside me.
I hum without looking up at him. “In a minute.”
“Sable,” he says, firmer this time. “It’s Saturday.”
“It won’t take long.”
“You said that an hour ago. Come on, I’m the account lead and even I switch off on weekends.”
“Deadlines don’t care what day it is.”
I don’t look at him. I don’t have to. I can feel the frown he’s aiming at me like a goddamn laser, radiating from two feet away.
He shifts—barely—but I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye.
The couch dips under his weight as he lowers his head, one hand moving to pull down the throw blanket over my lap.
His nose nudges gently against my stomach, through the thin cotton of my shirt.
“Noah,” I warn quietly.
He starts to move, mouth grazing along my ribs, lips dragging slow over the edge of my bra as he noses my shirt higher, exposing inch after inch.
My tablet slips sideways off my lap, thudding softly to the floor, but I barely notice—too focused on the heat of his breath and the way his hands are sliding up my sides.
He kisses one breast, then the other, and my breath hitches so hard it makes my teeth clench. I fist a hand in the back of his shirt, anchoring myself.
“I think I’m ready,” he whispers against my skin.
The world slows. He’s still there, still half-curled against me, hand braced against my hip, lips parted above my sternum.
I study him for a moment, blinking slowly, and then reach down to thread my fingers into his hair.
“You sure?” I ask, voice soft.
He nods without looking up. “Yeah. I trust you.”
Fuck, here we go.
I draw in a slow breath, fingers drifting to his temple, brushing softly until he leans into the touch. I let my thumb slide down, dragging over his soft lower lip. “You are?” I murmur, quiet as a breath.
“Mhm.” It comes out on an exhale, warm against my skin as he presses the faintest kiss to the pad of my thumb. “I’ll be so good,” he whispers. “I promise.”
A smirk tugs at the edge of my mouth as I tip my head, eyes tracking every twitch of his body.
“Oh?” I say, tone light despite the sudden rush of heat pooling between my thighs. “So now it’s your turn, huh?”
“Yeah.” His throat works around a hard swallow. “Just… let me try.”
He moves carefully, like touching me too fast might scare me off or wake him from a dream. His hands slip beneath my hips, coaxing me deeper into the cushions, and I let him, arms slack at my sides, legs open and easy. His breath hitches and he pauses for a second, long enough to breathe me in.
He leans down and presses a kiss to the curve of my sternum, then higher, until his lips brush over my collarbone. Then he bites. Not hard. But it’s enough to make me hiss through my teeth. His mouth is there immediately after, tongue sweeping over the sting, soothing it.
“I—” he starts, voice breaking like he’s about to apologize—but then he stops himself, shaking his head once, like no , not this time.
“Hands…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hands above your head. Please.”
I raise them without a word, folding my wrists over the pillow.
“Oh fuck,” he breathes, eyes tracking the motion. “Okay. Just—don’t move. Please.”
I stay still.
His gaze drags up the exposed inches of skin, lingering over every single dip and curve, then finally settles on my face. His voice is shaking when he speaks again, but there’s steel behind it. Fragile steel, but steel nonetheless. “Good. Don’t look away. Just like that.”
He shifts back, breath shallow, hands fumbling at his waistband. When he finally frees his cock, it’s flushed and leaking, twitching in his grip. He wraps one unsteady hand around the base and strokes himself once, spreading the pre-come across the head with his thumb.
Then he leans forward, careful and tentative, one hand braced beside my head, the other guiding himself. His tip brushes my lips, and he freezes.
“I—can I?” he asks, voice trembling.
I open my mouth for him, tongue out, waiting.
His breath stutters. “Fuck.”
He slides in, just the head at first, cautious, like he’s afraid of pushing too far. His hips hover, barely moving, waiting.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers. “Two taps and I’ll stop. Promise.”
Something about it—him using the system that’s usually reserved for him, still giving me control even as he takes it—makes my lashes flutter shut and my pussy clench around nothing.
He starts slow—shallow strokes, barely rocking into me, still hovering like he’s scared to mess it up.
His eyes flick to mine every few seconds, searching for any hint of discomfort, like he’s terrified of crossing a line he can’t come back from.
But I don’t flinch, not once—I want this as bad as he does.
“F-fuck,” he chokes out as he sinks deeper. “Thank you… fuck… thank you…”
Then he starts to move. Slow at first, but with purpose now. A little more pressure, a little more depth. His fingers tighten in my hair, not quite pulling yet, but bracing like he wants to. Like he’s holding himself back by a thread.
I moan around him, throat stretching as he fucks deeper.
“Oh my God—Sable—” His hips stutter, then drive forward again, more confident now. “You’re… fuck, your mouth…”
He’s shaking, panting, hips starting to find rhythm. The head of his cock hits the back of my throat and I choke, eyes watering, but I don’t pull away. My nails dig into his thighs and he jerks hard above me.
“Fuck—yes, do that—” His voice cracks. “Your nails—Jesus?—”
He rocks forward again, this time with purpose, deeper and rougher. The drag of his cock over my tongue is slick and obscene, and when he bottoms out again, I gag, throat tightening.
“Oh shit—sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasps, trying to pull back.
I grip his thighs tighter, holding him there, and his entire body shudders.
“You—” His voice is nothing but breath now. “You want this? You’re letting me—fuck—fuck, I’m gonna come?—”
He thrusts again, this time all the way in, and my eyes roll back as spit slicks my chin, messy and hot. I can’t breathe. I don’t want to . The only thing I want is this —him taking control and losing control, unraveling with every snap of his hips.
“God—Sable, your mouth—your fucking mouth—” He’s moaning nonstop now, every breath a broken sound. “You’re so fucking perfect—holy shit—look at you, look at?—”
His hands fist in my hair, finally pulling, guiding, using me like he’s too far gone to pretend he’s not. My eyes are streaming, nose running, spit everywhere, but I don’t care—I open wider, take more, feel him twitch hard on my tongue.
A desperate gasp rips through his throat. “I—fuck, I’m coming?—”
The first pulse hits the back of my throat like a punch.
Then another. Hot, thick, messier than he meant it to be.
His hips jerk wildly as he groans through it, spilling down my throat in helpless, stuttering bursts.
My mouth floods, and I swallow around him, sucking through the aftershocks until he whimpers.
When he finally pulls back, he’s trembling, still hard, still panting. “Holy fuck,” he breathes, staring down at me, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy. “Are you—are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
I swipe spit from my chin with the back of my hand and smirk up at him, voice rasping. “You didn’t even come close.”
He sways on his feet, a nervous smile flitting over his lips as he rubs the back of his neck. “Um… we… we aren’t done.”
My brow lifts. “Oh?”
He swallows, shaking his head. “No. You… you did so good for me. I think you should get to come now.”
My thighs clench on instinct, slick and aching, heat pulsing between my legs so hard I nearly gasp.
I don’t have time to process it properly before he’s pulling me up off the couch, hands gripping my arms. He turns me fast, bends me over the back of the couch.
The cushions dig into my ribs and I brace my forearms across them as I feel him step in close behind me.
“Stay right here.” He drags my sweats down around my thighs, exposing everything in one smooth motion. Cool air kisses my slick skin, and then?—
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes behind me.
His hand comes between my legs, fingers brushing over my pussy in a featherlight touch. I twitch under the touch, hips rocking back toward him. He groans, low and hungry, and then pushes two fingers in with no warning.
My mouth falls open. “Fuck—Noah?—”
His fingers curl inside me, dragging through the wetness with just enough pressure to make my thighs tremble.
“God, you’re soaked,” he whispers. “You got this wet just from my cock in your mouth?”
Then his other hand finds my hair—fingers threading through the strands before fisting at the roots. He yanks my head back gently, holding me there, open and gasping, throat stretched and exposed. The angle forces my spine into an arch, tilting my ass up higher for him.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, voice low and full of heat. “Good girl.”
Then he shoves another finger in. I choke on a moan, hips jerking back into his hand, needing more, needing everything .
Noah groans behind me. “Fuck—your pussy—God, you’re so?—”
He leans over, his forehead pressing against the curve of my spine like he can’t hold himself up anymore. He fucks me harder, wrist snapping with every thrust, every curl inside me hitting that perfect spot, over and over, until my legs shake, thighs twitching uncontrollably.
The pressure builds fast—too fast. I sob, strangled and shameless, grinding down against his hand.
“Come on,” he pants, voice rough against my skin. “Come for me. I know you want to—feels so fucking good around my fingers—let go—come on, good girl, let go?—”
My body locks up, every muscle drawn tight as my orgasm slams through me. I cry out, raw and wrecked, pussy clenching hard around his fingers as he drives me through it. The slick, wet sounds of my release echo loud in the room.
It isn’t until I’m panting and whining from the overstimulation that he eases his hand back.
He pulls me gently down, catching me as I slump forward.
His arms wrap around me, guiding me down onto his chest until all I can feel is the frantic thump of his heartbeat beneath my ear and the damp cotton of his shirt.
“Was that… okay? Did I do good?”
I smile into his skin, my breath still shaky. My hand lifts, fingers finding his jaw, tilting his face toward mine. “You did good, Noah. So, so good.”
His breath shudders and he leans down, lips meeting mine in a soft kiss. His hand curls around the back of my neck, thumb stroking gently at the base of my skull, grounding himself in the contact.
“Thank you,” he whispers against my mouth. “Fuck… thank you.”
I curl into his chest, basking in his warmth.
I used to fake it to spare egos. Gave away pleasure like it was a favor. Let men fumble and sweat and call it intimacy—like my body was something to be endured instead of worshipped.
Now? I get to fall apart in the arms of my Noah . The senior account lead from three doors down with shaky hands, a soft mouth, and a heart too fucking big to fit in his chest.
The man who says thank you when I let him touch me.
And I don’t even have to explain why that matters.