Page 39 of Crawl for Me

And that’s when it hits—heat searing up my calf, the sharp tick of a heel running the length of it under the table. My breath stutters, vision tilting, and I almost miss Liam launching into something about projection cycles.

Focus. Smile. Don’t look at her. Don’t let anyone see.

I manage to nod, even scrape together a vague response despite my skull ringing with each heartbeat. Servers sweep in with the first course—bowls steaming, silver clinking—and I can barely remember how to hold a spoon, let alone string sentences together as Liam rambles on about quarterly figures.

Spoons clink against porcelain. Conversation rises in easy waves. Sable leans slightly forward, talking to someone across the table, her laughter light, completely unaffected. Her heel, though, is merciless—dragging slow lines up and down my leg. Torture. Holy, perfect torture. I force down a mouthful, trying to chew, when her hand slides onto my thigh.

The shock is enough to lodge food in my throat. And I choke, actually choke around it, coughing with my fist pressed against my chest.

Liam swivels toward me, brows raised. “You good there?”

“Yeah,” I rasp, snatching for my water glass and forcing down a swallow. “Just... went down the wrong way.”

He chuckles, turning back to his bowl. The table hums on, oblivious, and Sable’s hand doesn’t move. It stays exactly where it is, palm spread over my thigh like she owns it, like she isn’t sitting in a crowded dining room full of coworkers and clients. She doesn’t so much as glance at me—just keeps talking across the table, her laugh soft and controlled.

But my pulse is in my ears. My collar’s sticking to the back of my neck. And every nerve in me is focused on that single point of contact, the pressure of her palm flexing, her nails teasing slow arcs through the fabric.

By the time the servers sweep back in with the main course, I’m holding it together with spit and prayer and the thinnest thread of composure I’ve ever faked in my life. My knuckles are welded bone-white around the cutlery, a smile nailed into place while my lungs fight for air. Because her hand’s been climbing, slow and merciless, creeping up inch by inch. And now her fingertips are resting right beneath the heavy strain under my slacks.

I don’t think I’m breathing anymore. Unless shallow wheezing counts. Which—sure, it probably does. But it feels more like dying in instalments.

She tips her glass back, laughing at something Sam’s just cracked, the sound sliding right under my skin. And then—like it’s nothing, like it’s part of the same damn movement—her hand settles over my cock.

My fork scrapes across the porcelain with a harsh metal shriek. My shoulders jerk up, head turning. No one's looking—thank Christ. Everyone’s carrying on, cracking jokes about the holiday party budget, the whole side of the table in stitches while Liam slaps his hand against the tablecloth.

“Breathe, Noah.” Her murmur slips right under the noise, thumb circling lazily over the head of my cock. “Sit still. Smile.”

I try. God, I try. My lungs stutter, my fork trembles in my grip, and all I can think about is how badly I want to obey. How badly I want to prove I can. But all I want to do is spread my thighs wider under the table, give her better access, let her ruin me in front of everyone. I want to beg her to keep going—to unzip me right here and make me buck until I’m spilling right into her hand.

But I nod, plaster on a smile, and grab my wine instead, swallowing hard around the pitiful sound clawing its way up my throat. The glass wobbles against my lip, half a second from spilling down my shirt.

“What do you think, Noah?” Liam cuts in, still chuckling, eyes bright with expectation.

My head jerks up. Four pairs of eyes on me—minimum. I clear my throat and force out the first thing I can. “Uh—yeah. Absolutely.”

“Perfect.” He grins wide, clapping me on the shoulder. “Cards, drinks, no spreadsheets allowed. You’re in. I’ll CC you on the group email when we’ve got a date.”

Group email? Cards? What the fuck did I just sign up for—poker night? Beer pong? A goddamn bachelor party? For all I know, I’ve agreed to swap kidneys in some back alley. Doesn’t matter. Because right then Sable squeezes me again, harder, nails digging in, and my brain shorts out in pure static.

Liam’s still talking—something about a buy-in, someone always folding too early, bringing “actual whiskey this time, none of that watered-down crap.”

Staff drift in and out, lifting plates, refilling wine, the whole performance seamless as clockwork. I mumble a thanks when my glass is topped off, but my voice feels distant, not my own. Because all I can focus on is the wet ache underneath her palm.

God. My boxers are wet. I’m—Christ, I’m leaking. She has to know. She knows. She’s going to feel it, she’s⁠—

When her own glass is filled, she shifts forward, reaching for it with her free hand. “I can feel how messy you are already,” she murmurs, sugar-sweet as her hair brushes over my shoulder. “You’re being so, so good for me.”

Her heel hooks around my ankle, tugging my legs apart under the table. Then her hand shifts—the heel of her palm presses flat over the head of my cock, grinding down in slow, torturous circles. My leg jerks under the linen, calf trembling against hers.

Fuck. No. No, no, no. I’m going to come. Right here. In my slacks. At a goddamn work dinner with clients and colleagues laughing about budgets not three feet away.

The pressure is unbearable—heat rolling through me in waves, thighs twitching, stomach drawn tight like a bowstring ready to snap. My skin’s burning, cheeks hot, breath shallow. Humiliation mixes with something darker, sharper.

I don’t even care. Not if she keeps—closer, closer, right there, right there⁠—

And then it stops.

Her hand slips away just as the ground tilts under me, leaving me gasping, stranded on the edge. I bite down on the groan clawing up my throat and twist it into a cough, snatching a napkin off the table and pressing it hard over my mouth.