Page 32 of Crawl for Me

I look up quickly—half expecting her eyes on me—but no. She’s bent over her tablet, stylus moving across the glass, her mouth set in a firm line. Sam leans close to murmur something, and she nods, jotting it down.

I look back down and swipe the screen open anyway.

Oh, fuck.

My tongue dries up instantly, throat locking tight, cock pulsing against my slacks so hard I shift in the chair, knee bumping the underside of the table loud enough that a couple heads flick my way. I force a quick cough to cover it, shoving the phone further under the lip of the table with now-slick fingers.

Delete it. No—save it. Don’t look again. Jesus Christ, don’t airdrop this to the projector. Focus. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck⁠—

Did she even mean to send this? My head jerks up, eyes searching for her like maybe I’ll catch the slip in her face, some crack that says ‘yes, that was for you.’

But she’s calm. Nonchalant. Elbow on the table, pen tapping soft against her tablet as she listens to the guy droning on about procurement timelines. Not a glance my way. Not so much as a twitch of an eyelid.

I suck in a breath, gravity and flesh drawing my eyes back down to the screen under the table.

Sable

Impressive delivery. Good job.

Here’s a treat.

*One image attached.*

It’s like she’s pulled me right into the stall with her. Cold marble behind her, the stainless steel paper dispenser blurred off in the corner. It’s too mundane, too ordinary, for something this obscene.

Her skirt’s shoved up high around her waist, bunched and wrinkled. The blouse hangs open to her ribs, bra yanked beneath the swell of her breasts, nipples tight and peaked against the wash of fluorescent light.

And her hand—two fingers buried inside her, wet gleam catching against the cheap bathroom tile. The way her knuckles shine, the tension in her wrist, like she’s fucking herself open for me.

Her mouth is parted, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, eyes locked straight on the camera.

I can’t drag my eyes off it. Every pixel’s pulling me in, my cock jerking against the fabric until I feel the unmistakable wet slip of pre-come leaking into my boxers. Shit. Shit. My throat snaps dry, lungs locked, and I fumble to thumb the screen black before I give the whole table a show, shoving my phone back into my pocket like that might cauterize the damage.

No one’s looking. Not at me, not at anything but the guy still droning about procurement like the world’s dullest sermon.

Thank fuck.

But Christ—what the hell was that?

My eyes drag over to her. She’s just… sitting there. Calm. Nodding along as Sam leans in to whisper something in her ear. Is she really going to sit there like nothing happened? Like she didn’t just send me a picture that nearly made me come in my damn slacks?

“—Sable?” Marla’s voice cuts the air, and heads swivel.

Sable doesn’t miss a beat. She straightens, eyes on Marla. “Engagement rates are tracking high for phase one, but conversion dips after forty-eight hours. We’re pushing targeted refreshes by Thursday to keep the audience hooked. Procurement delays are still the bottleneck—we’re compensating with flexible rollouts so the schedule doesn’t collapse.”

Perfect. Effortless. Like she didn’t⁠—

God.

The rest of the meeting blurs into numbers, projections, analytic chatter—all of it fuzzing into static as I sit there forcing my eyes anywhere but left. But finally—thank fuck—Marla closes her binder. Chairs scrape, papers shuffle, voices rise back into chatter, and everyone filters out in twos and threes down the hall.

I linger, pretending to rearrange my notes. Like that makes sense—like the same three pages need lining up ten times in a row. But I just want to see if she’ll look over. God help me, half of me’s hoping she does, the other half’s hoping she doesn’t.

There. A flicker. Her eyes cut across the table, catching mine. Just for a second—long enough to see the faintest curve of a smirk on her lips before she turns, tablet under her arm, and slips out with Sam at her side.

I scoop my notes up and move, following the current of bodies out of the conference room, down the corridor, down the stairwell, pulse hammering the whole way. Through the bullpen, past the hum of keyboards and the ring of phones, straight into my office. The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the noise, and I finally let the breath rip out of my chest. I twist the lock with shaking fingers and slam the blinds down hard.

Privacy. Just two minutes before I fall apart.