Page 24 of Crawl for Me

His throat bobs, a faint whimper catching there before he swallows it down. Fuck, that sound makes me want to drag him upstairs, lock the door, and keep going until he’s nothing but a wrecked puddle.

But the fog’s already clawing at edges of my mind, whispering reminders I don’t want to hear. Work, rules, the fact that we live down the hall from each other.

And that’s exactly why I need to get out of this car.

My hand lingers, thumb brushing once more before I lean in and press a final kiss to his cheek. Just enough to ground him—enough to ground me.

“You did good, Noah,” I say softly.

Then I sit back, tugging my skirt into place, pulse still tripping hard against the soaked lace plastered between my thighs—proof I’ve got no business setting rules when I fold this easily.

He scrubs a hand over his face, then through his hair, like he’s trying to scrape together the pieces I just stripped out of him. “I can—uh—” His voice catches. “Tomorrow, I can drive you back to the lot. Check your car. Or…anything you need. I—” He shakes his head, a hoarse breath breaking out of him. “Fuck, Sable.”

The heat low in my stomach wants to say yes. Take him upstairs. Let him ruin me until dawn. But the voice in my head—the one that sounds like survival—snaps hard against it. Work. Rules. Distance.

I slide my hand up again, cupping his cheek, steadying him before he tips further off the edge. “It’s fine, Noah,” I tell him, flat but not unkind. “Don’t worry about it.”

His eyes flash, wide and desperate, like he’s ready to argue. But nothing makes it past his lips.

I reach down and snag my bag from the footwell, fingers curling tight around the door handle. “Come on,” I mutter, tipping my chin toward the windshield, fogged edge to edge. “Before someone files a complaint to building management about us turning the lot into a drive-thru peep show.”

Chapter 10

Noah

Iflip the folder open, eyes skimming numbers that won’t stick. I could stare at these figures all day and I swear, it still wouldn’t scrape her out of my head.

Because it’s not numbers I see.

It’s the red wash of my brake lights in the lot. The fogged-up windshield. Her skirt riding high as she shifted against the seat, breath catching on my name while my hand—Christ—while my hand was buried inside her.

We went back up in silence. The whole elevator ride was just both of us staring at the numbers above the door like she hadn’t let me touch her—let me fuck her open with my hand until she came apart in the passenger seat. Her apartment door clicked shut down the hall, and that was it. Done and dusted.

Except it wasn’t done. Not for me.

I paced my own apartment like a lunatic that whole night, half-waiting for a knock, half-daring myself to make one. On Saturday, I almost did. Twice. Keys in hand, walking down the hall like I was about to return a casserole dish or something—except what was I supposed to say? Hi, remember me? The guy who ate you out once and fingered you in my car? Mind if I do it again?

I didn’t even make it halfway down the hall before I turned around like a coward.

Sunday was worse. Pathetic worse. I kept inventing reasons to be in the hallway, like a dog waiting at the table for scraps. Mailbox. Laundry. Trash. Didn’t matter that the bag was nearly empty. I took it down anyway. On the off chance she might come out into the hallway at the same time. Like if I somehow timed it just right, I’d be tossed a bone.

But nothing. Nothing all weekend. Didn’t catch her on the way to work this morning. Not in the hall, not in the elevator. It’s like she’s drawn the line clean on Friday night and iced me out.

“Hello?”

The word snaps me out of my spiral. My head jerks down, and there she is—Sable—standing right next to me, so close I can see the faint, impatient crease between her brows, the sheen of the soft pink gloss painted onto her lips. My stomach lurches.

Beautiful. God, she’s beautiful.

“Well?” she says.

I just blink at her, brain lagging miles behind. “Uh—what?”

Her brow arches higher. “Are you going to move?”

“Move? Why would I…”

She gestures toward the counter with her chin. “The coffee machine. You’ve been hogging it for ten minutes.”