“I’m here for the paycheck.”

“I give up. I. Give. Up.” He groaned, throwing up his hands in a fake surrender. “Speaking of your paycheck, though. Before you go, I need you to finally sign off on this. The Signature payroll officially rolls over to us in two weeks, and I assume you’ll want to continue being paid.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed me a pen.

I unfolded the paper, quickly read the printed words, and handed it back to him. “This is not the salary I requested. This isn’t even a fraction of the salary I requested.”

“No shit.” He scoffed. “The salary range for a new captain is seventy to ninety thousand. The max is one hundred twenty to one hundred forty thousand after years at the captain level.”

“That sounds like an unfortunate problem for the rest of the pilots here. It also sounds like you never put in my request. You simply assumed what human resources would say.”

“There was no need to assume because I know exactly what they’re going to say.” He stepped back. “And I know they’ll laugh me out of the room while doing it. Four hundred fifty thousand dollars a year to fly commercial planes?”

“Make sure you tell them that’s my minimum.”

“You’re not at Signature anymore, Weston. You’re not flying sports teams, celebrities, or small world leaders. Surely you can understand that, and surely you can see that your demand is ridiculous.”

I didn’t back down. I hadn’t flown for less than that in six years, and merger or not, I wasn’t going to start now. I wasn’t even going to entertain the thought.

“I’ll also need to continue getting every third weekend of every month off. That was promised to me before I signed the paperwork.”

“Okay. How much crack have you been you eating, Weston? I’m seconds away from demanding that you take a piss test right now.”

“Four hundred fifty thousand. Every third weekend off. No crack, just pussy.”

“If I go to them with this,” he said, finally realizing that I wasn’t joking. “And they tell me, to tell you, to go fuck yourself, what do you want me to say?”

“It won’t come to that.” I started to walk away. “Trust me.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t count it.”

“And if I were you, I wouldn’t doubt it.”

GILLIAN

~BLOG POST~

Present Day...

I’m typing this post while I’m on a rainy layover in Dallas, while I wait to head to Paris.

My life is now a montage of cities and countries that blend into a never-ending day. I fall asleep in San Francisco and wake up hours later in Hawaii. I order a cup of coffee in Madrid and buy crepes for lunch in Paris. I watch the rain fall over Seattle’s grey afternoons and catch a bright, bloody sunset in Phoenix.

And somewhere in between all of this traveling—in half-constructed bathrooms, parking garages, and last-minute hotel rooms, I break my airline’s number one rule: I have sex with fuck a pilot.

I give him every piece of me—letting his sex set my skin on fire, listening to him whisper words in my ear that continuously wet my pussy as he pounds into me from behind. And then I let him go.

Or at least I try to...

I think I’m starting to like him, and when I say “him,” I’m only saying that halfheartedly. I don’t really know who the hell he is because he’s so damn guarded, and for every two questions I ask, he only gives me one answer.

He also disappears every three weeks, never answers his phone in front of me, and for some strange reason, I can’t help but feel that he’s hiding something from me.

(I’ve somewhat missed this writing on this abandoned blog. Somewhat.)

Write later,

**Taylor G.**

2 comments posted:

KayTROLL: Welcome back. Again.

KayTROLL: Now, please go away again and find some inspiration so you can post about something other than your sex life. No one cares about who you’re fucking (especially since you’re being dumb and breaking the rules) and as your only reader, I deserve something more than porn to read. #thankyou #dobetter

GATE B16

GILLIAN

Atlanta (ATL)—> Denver (DEN)—> New York (JFK)

“This is the final boarding call for Elite Airways Flight 1297 with service to San Francisco.” A voice floated through the Hartsfield-Atlanta restroom speakers. “If you are scheduled to be on this flight, please make your way to gate E13 now. Also...”

The remainder of the words came muted as Jake gripped my thighs and moved me up and down his cock. My fingers dug into his skin, his lips covered mine, and just as we’d done so many times before, we fought for control until our bodies finally gave in.

Briefly shutting my eyes, I collapsed in his arms—feeling him softly kiss my lips as I struggled to catch my breath. I didn’t want to admit it, but we were getting reckless. Beyond reckless.

Whenever we were in the same city, we met. Same hotel, we met. And God forbid if we ended up in the same airport for more than thirty minutes at a time.

My body now lusted for his touches, my mouth yearned for his tongue, and my pussy throbbed nightly in need for his cock. Sex with him was becoming wild addiction and I never wanted to be cured.

And even now, knowing that we wouldn’t see each other again until Sunday when we crossed paths in Dallas, I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time: Longing. Genuine longing.