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A long breath leaves her, and she pivots to the couch, sinking onto the cushions. The sheet cinches higher around her as her head tips back on a low groan. I drift after on instinct and stall a step short, nausea going wild in my gut. She nods down at the cushion next to her, and I slowly sink down, palms pressing into my thighs.
“Noah,” she says, dragging her eyes to me. “I want you. Of course I want you. I want you so bad I can’t think straight, and I’m spending my nights fucking myself stupid with you on my mind just to shut it up for ten minutes.”
My heart all but explodes behind my ribs, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “Wh—what?”
She runs a hand through her hair. “You make me feel good. Not just the orgasms—though, yes, that. You make me feel like I’m in my skin on purpose. And I like what I do to you. I like wrecking you. I like knowing you’ll take it and ask for more.” Her jaw moves as she chews the inside of her cheek. “But I’m not getting fired over this.”
My brain whites out for a second. Wrecking me. Nights. Want you. The words stack and tilt and my chest forgets how to expand. Heat, shame, relief—it all floods through me—everything at once, loud enough to buzz in my teeth. I want to laugh, or cry, or put my face in her lap and breathe her in and please her all at once.
“Okay.” My voice scrapes out. “Then—what if we don’t hide. What if we… disclose.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“Hear me out.” I let out a shaky breath. “We met before I started. Before the account. That matters.”
“The manual says—”
“I know.” I nod, fast. “I read it last night. And again this morning. Three-point-four bans supervisor–subordinate relationships. But I’m not really your manager—Marla is. And there wasn’t a damn thing written about pre-employment relationships.”
She stays stock-still, brow furrowing deeper with every word that falls out of my mouth.
“So we ask for mitigation,” I push. “We say we stick to the rules they have—I don’t treat you any different in the office than I would anyone else, I don’t touch you, or look at you weird, or kiss you even when I really, really want to—which is what I’ve been doing anyway. We schedule everything on the calendar so HR knows what’s what and when we’ll be together. Honestly, we wouldn’t have to change anything. It’d just be… formal, and in writing. We’d just have to let them know.”
“And if they say no and fuck us up?”
Air scrapes down my throat. “I don’t know, Sable,” I admit, because lying here would be worse than stupid. “But I’d rather stand under fluorescents with you than keep tripping in the dark and hope we don’t break our necks.”
“It’s a good idea… but…”
But…
This is it, Noah. No more awkward speeches. Just proof.
One last attempt.
I slip off the couch before I’ve even thought it through, the drop jolting through me as my knees smack the floor, the shock ricocheting up my thighs. The room tightens around us—walls pressing in, her silence crushing against my ribs until I can’t breathe, can’t hold myself upright.
Idiot. Idiot, idiot. My brain won’t shut up, the panic splintering through me. What the hell am I doing on my knees, like this? What kind of fucking moron—
A quiet gasp ripples through the air and my eyes snap up to meet hers.
“If you want me on the floor, I’m on the floor,” I say, and I don’t blink. “If you want yes, it’s yes. If you want no, it’s no. If you want quiet, I’ll swallow my tongue and learn your silences; if you want still, I’ll count the stitches in this carpet until my knees know them by heart; if you want patient, I’ll measure time in your breaths and wait through every elevator ding and HR form and Monday morning until you say move. If you want distance, I’ll turn into air and pass you in the hallway like I never learned your taste. If you want this—” my throat works, heat climbing up my cheeks “—say it, and I’ll crawl. I’ll crawl to you, and I’ll keep crawling—across this room, across whatever’s between us—until you point and say stop.”
The silence that follows is thick and quiet and loaded. My palms sweat where they press into the carpet. My knees fucking ache. My pulse hammers like it’s trying to outpace the shame already pooling hot behind my ribs.
Then she shifts forward, tilting her head. “Then crawl for me.”
My mouth opens and closes, heart stopping and restarting in one single dizzying beat.
“Wait—what?” My voice breaks. “You’re—are you serious? Like does this mean you… I mean, we—? Can we…?”
Jesus Christ, I’m malfunctioning.
She doesn’t flinch. Just rises from the couch like this isn’t the single hottest, most nerve-frying thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. The sheet stays wrapped around her body—tight, knotted high under her arms—fingers clutching it in place.
“You offered,” she says simply. Then she turns, walking toward the hallway. “Come on then,” she calls without turning. “Be a good boy. Crawl for me.”
Oh fuck.
