Page 34 of Crawl for Me

Straight-down shot?

I hold the phone over me and snap a picture.

Christ, no. That looks like a weird biology exhibit or something you’d see in a medical pamphlet called ‘Male Health Issues—Your Penile Health.’

I slump lower in the chair, hips sliding forward, tilting the camera up from below. Better. Almost impressive, actually. Fuck, my dick looks huge like this. Then sanity catches up. No. Absolutely not. Delete.

I groan under my breath, drag a hand over my face, and try again. From the side. From the front. Each one’s worse than the last—too shadowy, too awkward, too try-hard.

I perch on the edge of my desk, back to the glass windows, phone angled down. My free hand wraps tight around the base, squeezing until a slick bead of pre-come pearls at the tip. That’s it. That’s what she’d want to see. Proof. That she does this to me. That I’m wrecked for her, hard and leaking in the middle of my fucking office.

Just do it, Noah.

The photo sends with a whoosh, the bubble hanging there like a death sentence.

Delete the message.

No. Too late. The little “delivered” checkmark stares back at me like the smug bastard it is.

Pretend it never happened.

Yeah. Sure. Just… throw my phone out the window, crawl under the desk, fake my own death. Maybe HR will draft a tasteful memorial email. ‘Rest in peace to our senior account lead, Noah Calloway, who died in a tragic accident. Poor bastard tried to take a sexy picture of his dick and didn’t survive the shame.’

The screen blinks, a new bubble appearing. My pulse spikes, bile licking up the back of my throat.

Sable

Better.

Now we’re playing.

Don’t you dare stroke it until I tell you to.

My cock’s still in my hand, flushed dark, the tip gleaming as pre-come slips slowly over my knuckles. It throbs hungrily, but I force it back into my boxers, pull my slacks back up, and buckle my belt.

Because just like that, I’m ruined—sweating through my shirt, shaking, grinning like an idiot, playing her game, and so hard I swear I’m going to have a zipper-shaped bruise branded into me for weeks.

Chapter 13

Sable

“Night, Sable,” Sam calls as he shrugs into his coat, waving half-heartedly on his way to the elevators.

“Night,” I mutter, barely glancing up from my screen.

And then he’s gone. The bullpen empties with him, phones silenced, chatter gone, overheads dimmed to the half-light that makes everything look ghostly. Just the hum of the vents and the occasional pop of the printer settling.

I lift my mug, hoping for a last swallow to keep me going, but it’s bone dry. Figures.

Two more spreadsheets left, and my brain’s already trying to tap out. I need more. Coffee, fuel, something to drag me through the finish line.

Fresh coffee at seven p.m. is totally fine, right? Probably not. But fresh coffee at seven p.m. is exactly what I’m about to do anyway.

My joints creak as I push up from the chair, lacing my fingers over my head until my spine cracks. A heavy yawn slips out—fuck, I’m tired.

I cut through the shadowed cubicles, already picturing the little pods of energy waiting in the break room, when light spills from the corner office. Noah’s.

I lean against the edge of a cubicle wall, mug dangling from my fingers, and let myself watch him through the half-shut blinds for a second. He’s fussing with papers, shifting stacks from one side of the desk to the other. Tie crooked, sleeves shoved up, hair a little ruffled.