Page 1 of Crawl for Me

Chapter 1

Sable

Just to the right, champ. I believe in you. You’ve got this. You’ve totally got this.

His hand shifts down between us, heading right for gold. But he slips too far, fingers grazing a spot that definitely isn’t the target. He adjusts, presses down a little harder, then lands clumsily on the side of my labia, thumb mashing in like he’s trying to bruise a fucking peach as a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his temple.

Jesus. I take it back. He does not have this.

My hand slides down between our bodies, nudging his out of the way. Because I know what I’m doing. Because someone in this bed needs to finish the damn job, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be him.

“Oh, God,” he groans, eyes flaring with lust. “That’s so fucking hot. That’s right. Rub yourself while I fuck you.”

I bite my lip—not from pleasure, not from anything close to it—but to stop the sound of laughter from bubbling up my throat.

He thrusts again, rhythm awkward and slightly off, hips slapping into mine as he stares down at me like I’ve just parted the fucking Red Sea, like my fingers circling my clit are some sacred act of submission instead of what it really is—me salvaging this night from complete and utter mediocrity.

Once upon a time, I would’ve taken this as normal. Just how it is. Back when I was twenty-one and still pretending bad sex was better than no sex, still convincing myself that a guy sweating and grunting on top of me counted as intimacy. I’d lie there, bored out of my skull, and tell myself it was fine. That wanting more made me picky. That maybe orgasms were just for other people.

But now I’m twenty-seven, and the boredom hasn’t changed—but I have. Now it comes with a crawling throb of impatience behind my eyes and a quiet, infuriating awareness that I’ve been in this moment before. Because no matter how much he wants this to work, no amount of enthusiasm changes the simple, infuriating fact that his fingers are lost, his dick has more chance of locating Atlantis than my G-spot, and I am still—entirely, inevitably—nowhere near an orgasm. They always promise the world, don’t they? The fireworks. The wrecked sheets. The toe-curling, eye-rolling, soul-exiting event of the year. And what do they actually deliver? A few mediocre pumps, a labia burn, and the quiet indignity of being a dollar out of pocket for the condom.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, breath hot and uneven, spilling across my neck in damp bursts.

Six weeks. Six weeks of Connor sweating and fumbling while I’ve coached, redirected, even physically guided his hand—only for him to miss the point every single time. All because I let myself be charmed by a nice smile and a half-decent Tinder bio. Rookie move. Because here I am again, saving myself while he pants like a dog in July. Should I pet him? Offer him a bowl of water and a towel?

No, I’m fine, it’s fine, I can do this.

I keep circling, stubbornly chasing the edge of that sweet release, willing my body to give me something—but there’s a cramp creeping down the back of my thigh that I’m ninety percent sure is a nasty cramp waiting to pounce, and then my eyes catch the glow of his PC screen over his shoulder.

The game’s paused mid-combat—some muscle-bound warrior flexing under dramatic lighting—and sitting right beside it is his open Spotify, proudly blasting a playlist titled “Stroke Game .”

The laugh I’d been biting back slips out, breaking into a soft giggle I can’t fully catch in time, and I pull my hand from my bored clit, bringing it up to press lightly against his chest.

“Alright,” I say, voice caught between amused and completely done. “Get out of me.”

He stutters, frozen mid-thrust, eyes darting down. “Oh… uh… you wanna get on top?”

I blink at him once, then I lift my foot, press the ball of it square against the center of his chest, and push—slow and steady—until he rocks back on his heels and pulls out, confusion spreading across his face.

“No, I definitely don’t want to get on top,” I say, stretching my arms overhead, spine cracking faintly as I lean back into the pillows. Then I push upright with a lazy exhale, rolling my shoulders. “I have leftover pad Thai and half a bottle of red at home calling my name—and frankly, both of them are a hell of a lot more likely to make my night more enjoyable than you are.”

He sinks back on his knees with a frown on his face, his cock still standing there between his thighs, proud and pointless, a little red, a little confused, still sheathed in glistening latex.

I swing my legs off the edge of the mattress, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft slap, and start scanning the room for my clothes—his laundry’s everywhere, shirts draped over desk corners, socks in mating pairs scattered across the carpet.

There—my underwear, peeking out from beneath what might be a hoodie or possibly a blanket. I tug it free and pull it on.

My bra’s inside out and tangled under his desk chair, caught on the wheel. I yank it free and fasten it while the thought loops again, sharp and certain.

Behind me, the mattress creaks violently as he scrambles forward.

“Sable, are you fucking serious?” he stutters out. “You can’t just leave me with blue balls.”

I straighten up and step into my jeans, yanking them over my hips with the practiced efficiency of a woman who’s dressed post-disappointment before. “Not my problem,” I say over my shoulder, voice light. “You’ll survive. Maybe try jerking off with a sock or with your left hand instead.”

I spot my shirt half-draped over the back of his gaming chair and reach for it, tugging it free just as I hear the unmistakable squelch of him peeling off the condom behind me.

“Come on,” he groans, stepping toward me, bare feet slapping the laminate floor. “It’s been six weeks. Don’t throw it away over this. I can do better. Please.”