Page 2 of Crawl for Me

He sounds so earnest it almost pulls at my heart. Almost. But if six weeks of coaching didn’t do it, one more mercy round isn’t going to save us.

I pull my shirt over my head, smooth it down, then glance at him properly. His hair’s sticking up in sad little tufts, and his dick, finally defeated, hangs like it’s embarrassed to be here.

“Connor,” I say, slinging my bag over one shoulder, “You’ve had more than enough chances.”

He scoffs and moves toward me, voice rising. “What, so you’re just gonna bail?”

I arch a brow and glance toward the door. “Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Deadly.”

Silent static fills the air for a second before venom creeps out between his teeth. “Jesus, Sable. You act like sex is supposed to be some… performance. Like it’s a crime if I don’t make you come every single time.”

Ah. There it is. Not rage, not logic—just pissy indignation dressed up as defense. Because God forbid a woman wants to actually get off. Suddenly it’s not about effort, it’s about me asking too much.

“Normal people don’t overthink it,” he snaps, face flushed. “They enjoy it for what it is.”

I laugh under my breath. “Normal people, huh? We’ve been doing this for six weeks, Connor. Not once. Not one fucking orgasm. And not for lack of trying—because I’ve guided you, I’ve told you, I’ve practically drawn a damn map. If that’s your definition of ‘enjoying it,’ you might want to get a refund on whatever sex ed you skipped.”

His brow knots angrily. “Every time you move my hands or try to switch shit up, it makes me feel like shit and I don’t want it like that. So this on you, not me. I tried. It isn’t my fault women like you fry their nerves with fucking vibrators and then expect us to compete with machines.”

“Right,” I scoff. “If we’re playing the blame game, maybe we should talk about men and their porn-rotted brains. Half of you think jackhammering for three minutes counts as foreplay, and the other half think women come from being in the same vicinity as your dick. Pump in, pump out, scream, squirt all over the sheets like some staged production—that’s the fantasy, right? And when reality doesn’t look like those staged productions, suddenly it’s my vibrator’s fault?”

He sputters, face blotching redder by the second.

I smirk slowly, one hand already on the door. “Mediocrity isn’t a kink of mine. We’re done, Connor. Lose my number.”

I twist the knob, but his arm plants against the doorframe, blocking me. His breath is ragged, chest heaving, eyes wide and ugly. “You’re a fucking bitch.”

“Mm.” I glance down at his deflated dick, then back up at him. “And you’re background noise. Goodbye, Connor.”

He jerks his arm back, muttering something bitter under his breath, but I don’t give him the dignity of catching it. I rag the door open and slip through it without so much as a backward glance. By the time I hit the stairwell, my pulse has already leveled out. There’s pad Thai in the fridge, a vibrator in my nightstand, and not a single fuck left to give to men who think a sliver below bare minimum deserves a round of applause.

Chapter 2

Noah

The clink of the key fob against the wine bottle follows me across the glass-and-marble lobby, the takeout bag swinging in my other hand like I’ve been doing this for months instead of only three forgettable days.

I didn’t move here chasing some big reinvention or a fresh start or whatever glossy bullshit people write about in self-help books. I’m not that naïve. The transfer is just a different set of walls with a new zip code and skyline. The rest is the same—same inbox, same meetings where I nod at the right times, same workload.

I haven’t even started yet, but the apartment, this whole building, it feels like a layover—bare walls, unopened boxes, a place I’m passing through rather than living in.

Overhead, the soft mechanical whir of the elevator starts, filling the quiet midnight lobby with motion as I jab the button on the wall with my elbow.

I sigh into the stillness and tip my head back, glancing up at the descending numbers.

Tonight, I just need to eat, sleep, and preferably not spiral.

Tomorrow I’ll handle the rest—hang the clothes, fix the coffee machine, maybe even take the bubble wrap off the mirror I’ve been avoiding since I unpacked it. Maybe I’ll even⁠—

Cold air snakes over my back as the lobby doors creak open behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.

I don’t know her—never seen her before—but my shoulders go rigid, breath snagging tight in my lungs.

She steps inside, head tipped slightly down, pace unhurried. One hand hooks through the strap of a crossbody bag, the other buried in the front pocket of her jeans. Her sneakers whisper over the polished tile, each step pulling my attention like a thread I can’t stop following.