Page 22 of Crawl for Me

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath. Then I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and let the words cut clean through the car. “Do it again.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “Wh—what? Do… what again?”

The leather creaks as I shift in my seat. “Touch my thigh again.”

He hisses out a curse, hands accidentally jerking against the wheel, tires humming against the lane markers.

“Are you—” His voice cracks, raw panic threading through it. “Sable, are you sure? I mean… you—you’ve been so sure…”

I angle my body toward him, eyes fixed on his jittery profile. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Noah.”

A strangled sound claws out of his throat and he sucks in a sharp breath. His hand trembles as it hovers in the space between us. Then he lowers it, knuckles brushing the fabric of my skirt for a split second. One fleeting stroke, a whisper of contact, before he drags his hand back to the wheel.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, want and frustration biting through me. That’s it? That’s all? My thighs ache for more, the nerves under my skin itching with it.

“Not like that,” I murmur. “Do it properly.”

He whispers something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—and his hand drifts back down, slow as treacle as he keeps his eye on the road.

My breath trips in a shallow gasp. Liquid need courses through my veins, pooling fast as his hand lands on my thigh, warm fingers splaying out across the muscle.

Fuck, the fabric of my underwear’s clinging already. One touch. One damn touch.

I can’t look at him, not directly. So my gaze hovers instead—darting between the frantic rise and fall of his chest, and that hand. That damn, impossible, talented hand.

My nails dig crescents into the strap of my bag, a futile anchor. My pulse is wrecked, pounding fast and frantic, and I can already feel the thought creeping in—the one I shouldn’t be having. The frustration claws deeper, curling hot and mean under my ribs.

It isn’t enough. I want more.

My lips part with a shaky breath. “Squeeze,” I murmur. “Just squeeze it.”

His hand freezes like he’s been caught stealing, but then, slowly, he tightens his grip, fingers pressing harder into the flesh of my thigh.

My teeth sink into my lip, stifling my groan, holding it there until a sting blooms in the flesh. God. Just that—just his hand, firm and obedient, and my whole body lights up like a live wire.

He doesn’t glance at me. Not once. His eyes are locked on the road, knuckles bone-white on the wheel with his other hand, shoulders rigid as if one wrong move will send the whole car spinning. But still—he squeezes again. Rougher this time. Braver.

“Higher,” I say on a breath.

His fingers tremble, palm inching, fingers spreading wider against my thigh. My pulse stammers so hard it rattles my ribs.

My eyes flick down to his hand, inching higher. His chest, rising and falling too fast. And just below the line of the wheel... His slacks can barely contain him, the fabric pulled taut over the thick outline straining against the zipper.

My mouth waters, want pulsing hot through my veins. “You’re hard.”

He jolts, the car veering half an inch before he snatches it back in line. “I—I can’t help it. You told me to⁠—”

“I’m not complaining.” My hand shoots out before he can retreat, catching his wrist and pressing it down, firmer, against my thigh.

God, he’s shaking. The big, polished account lead who looks like he was born wearing a tie—trembling at the feel of my thigh under his hand. Something viciously sweet twists low in my stomach. He’d fall apart so easily if I pushed.

I drag his hand higher, guiding him, forcing the path myself as I lean back against the seat, my thighs spreading slowly until the hem of my skirt rides up over the tops of my stockings. “Inside,” I murmur steadily, even though my pulse is jackhammering. “Now.”

His breath falters, but his hand fumbles forward, fingers grazing up, until the barest brush of his knuckles skims the wet lace. My eyelids nearly flutter shut at the ghost of contact.

Then he pushes further, clumsy, frantic, like he can’t believe I’m letting him. His fingers slip under, sliding against bare, slick flesh, and I hear the noise he makes—half groan, half prayer.

“Oh, God,” he rasps.