Page 56 of Crawl for Me

Just a little friction. Enough to take the edge off. That’s all I need.

I roll my hips, dragging my clit over the sheet in one slow, aching stroke, with enough pressure to make my breath hitch. I do it again, and again, each movement sending a ripple of heat through me. Then my hand slides down between my stomach and the mattress, until I find the wet mess there. I circle once, rolling my clit beneath the soft pad of my fingertip, hips jerking at the contact.

It isn’t enough. God, it isn’t even close.

I reach for the nightstand blindly, half-wedged against the mattress as I fumble across the surface. My wrist knocks against a bottle of lotion, sending it clattering across the floor, and I curse under my breath, shifting onto my hands and knees, dragging the sheet with me.

Then—finally—my fingers close around smooth silicone, tucked right behind the lamp.

Found it.

I shift up onto my knees, dragging a pillow into place with one hand, the other still clutching the toy like a lifeline. It takes a second to get it where I want it—angled just right, wedged between my thighs. I flick it on to the highest setting with no hesitation.

The low buzz hums through the fabric, straight into my palm. My whole body pulses in answer.

I sink down slowly, settling my hips over it until the tip presses flush against my entrance, the shaft grinding between my lips, catching perfectly on my clit.

Oh fuck.

I grasp for my phone, flipping it over with shaking fingers until that picture lights up the screen again—God, he was so fucking hard for me.

My breath stumbles into sharp, broken gasps as I grind down harder, hips rocking in a messy, frantic rhythm. The pillow catches, the toy pressed tight against my clit, each movement sending another jolt of raw electricity through me.

“I—anything. Any way you want. I’m yours to use. I—fuck, Sable—I just want you.”

My eyes flutter shut, chest heaving. Oh, God—I’m soaking the pillow.

“I’m gonna—shit—I’m gonna lose it the second you’re on me. Fuck—fuck—I won’t be able to hold it.”

Yes. Yes, fuck, yes.

I pick up the rhythm—harder, faster—hips snapping like I’m fucking him for real. Like he’s pinned under me, cock buried deep, mouth slack, fists twisting in the sheets while I ride him like a goddamn toy, using him exactly how I want.

My clit grinds hard against the vibrator, every motion sending sparks straight through me. Wetness spills down my thighs, soaking the fabric, every drag of friction hotter than the last. I rut against it with shameless, filthy desperation, panting, chasing it.

It builds low and tight, heat curling in my belly, hips moving faster, messier, harder. I hump the pillow like a fucking animal, clit swollen and aching, nerves screaming for it, needing it.

“Fuck—fuck—” I gasp, white-knuckling the sheets.

And then it crashes into me—tearing through me with a full-body shatter that rips the air out of my lungs. My pussy clenches around nothing, throbbing with every wave as I grind down one more time, then again, riding it out through gritted teeth and broken moans.

I click the vibrator off and slump forward, kicking the soaked pillow onto the floor. And for a minute, I just breathe.

It doesn’t feel satisfying—not even close. No relief, no calm, just the strange, quiet vacuum of wanting something I can’t have.

Eventually, I flop onto my back and tug the covers halfway up, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention—or at least a halfway decent excuse for why I can’t stop emotionally spiraling over orgasms and office tension.

A groan slips out as I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

This is for the best. This is definitely, unquestionably, for the best.

But… he was right about what he said on the way to that meeting. I still want him anyway.

And I hate that, I hate that so fucking much. I’m a mess with a big tangle of shame and want knotted together so tight in my chest I have no idea how I’m even going to attempt to pry them apart. So instead, I bury my face in the pillow like cotton could smother a confession and I breathe until my lungs ache.

It isn’t until I’m finally drifting off that a knock cuts through the apartment. I jolt, heart skipping at least three beats, head snapping up.

And then there’s another knock—softer this time.