I clawed at his back as his tongue brought me to orgasm twice in a row, leaving my pleasure etched onto his skin.

When he finally finished, he had one hour until boarding so he simply put me back together and walked away, saying, “I’ll email you for where you need to meet me in Charlotte next week. And for the record, the taste of your pussy’s come is incredible...”

GATE B14

GILLIAN

Charlotte (CLT)—> Atlanta (ATL)—> Montreal (YUL)

Subject: Charlotte

How’s your week going so far? (Mine is very stressful and hectic.)

Subject: Re: Charlotte

This email isn’t about fucking. (Emails are only supposed to be about fucking.)

—Jake.

Subject: Charlotte (The Correct Email)

Meet me in Terminal C when you land. Gate 15.

—Jake

Subject: Re: Charlotte (The Correct Email)

Regardless of if **emails** are only supposed to be about “fucking,” would it kill you to say, “Hello, Gillian” or “Hope all is well, Gillian” before launching into where you want me to meet you for sex? I thought we agreed to be cordial...

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Charlotte (The Correct Email)

We also agreed not to have pointless conversations. Terminal C. Gate 15.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Charlotte (The Correct Email)

If you don’t start being cordial with me after today, I can promise you that I won’t come meet you anymore.

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Charlotte (The Correct Email)

And I can promise that you have no idea who you’re fucking with...

—Jake

***

Subject: Atlanta

You were supposed to meet me at E3 thirty minutes ago.

—Jake.

Subject: Re: Atlanta

I’m still waiting for you to ask me about my day or say hello first...

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Atlanta

Keep waiting. Get to E3. Now.

—Jake

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Atlanta

Hello. How are you? Please meet me at E3 so we can have sex today because I am addicted to having sex with you. See how easy that is? Give it a try. :-)

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Atlanta

Stop fucking with me, Gillian...You have thirty seconds to get to E3.

—Jake

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Atlanta

SERIOUSLY, JAKE? Did you just say what I think you just said over the speakers?

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Atlanta

If you’re not here within the next ten seconds, I’ll make sure to say “Gillian’s pussy.” Try me.

—Jake

***

Subject: Montreal

Hello. How are you.

Tim Horton’s. Arrival Zone.

—Jake.

Subject: Re: Montreal

Fuck you, Jake.

—Gillian

Subject: Re: Re: Montreal

Looking forward to it in three hours.

—Jake

***

I leaned against a chair, scrolling through Jake’s latest text messages—unsure whether I could wait another week to have him again. For the first time in my life, I felt like I needed sex. In the past, when the sex was with my previous boyfriends, it’d felt good—sweet, even, but this was different. It was raw, no-holds-barred, and primal, and I was beginning to believe him when he claimed I was just as insatiable as he was.

“What’s up with that goofy grin on your face, Miss Taylor?” Miss Connors sat across from me at the gate.

“Nothing.” I tucked my phone into my blazer pocket. “Just checking up on recent events.”

“Oh really? Because I thought for sure the reason you were looking like an idiot was because ever since you went to the bathroom a couple hours ago, you’ve been walking around with your dress inside out.”

What? I looked down and sure enough, the white seams of my dress were face up, something I’d neglected to check when I redressed earlier.

“Go fix it, Miss Taylor.” She waved me away. “Now.”

As I walked past her, I heard her mumble, “I swear they get dumber every year...I don’t get paid enough for this...”

I slipped inside the closest restroom and quickly flipped my dress inside out. I made sure my hair was still sleek and in place, and then—still on cloud nine after today’s sex, I called Meredith.

No answer. An immediate text from her appeared instead.

Meredith: Hey, Gill. Been weeks since we caught up! Are you okay? I’m at a crucial run-through right now, so I can’t talk. Can I call you later tonight?

Gillian: Of course! And I’m more than okay :-)

There was no one else I could call right now, but since I wanted to get this off my chest, I logged into my abandoned blog from years ago and started a new post.

~BLOG POST~

Oh New York, New York, New York...

I finally found the cure for getting over you: Flying...and—

Write later,

Gillian

No, wait...

**Taylor G.**

I heard Miss Connors calling my name and posted the blog without finishing. But as I stepped out of the restroom, I realized it took all of five seconds for my only follower to comment, as if no time had passed at all.

KayTROLL: Welcome back. This should be interesting...Or not. Your writing seems even worse than before. Now, after all these years, you can’t complete simple ass SENTENCES???! O_o #sadddddd.

GATE B15

JAKE

Seattle (SEA)—> Minneapolis (MSP)—> New York (JFK)

I was beginning to think that sex with Gillian was the cure for a good night’s sleep, the perfect distraction from the nights of breaking shit that came every so often. And despite the fact that she drove me up a wall with her need to talk, her demands of unnecessary ‘Hellos’ and ‘How are yous,’ I couldn’t get enough of her. Each time we had sex was far more explosive than the last, and no matter how loudly she screamed, or how deeply she dug her nails into my skin as she came, I always looked forward to the next time.

The only downside to our arrangement was the small things she was beginning to do here or there, subtle things that seemed as if she was attempting to seep further into my life and break one of our rules. Whenever we met at certain airports, she always insisted that we stop inside a magazine shop or a bookstore together and talk. She would pick up a new book, insist on having a short conversation about either, “I wonder if this will be good,” “Maybe this will last me on my next flight,” or “I saw lots of passengers reading this one, but it’s kind of expensive.” And it would take me all of three minutes to take the book from her, pay for it, and escort her to whatever secluded place we were really supposed to be.

When we finished fucking (if we didn’t go back for a third or a fourth time), she would stare at me with her big green eyes in silence for several minutes. Sometimes she’d stare at me so long that I would be forced to help her quickly get dressed so we wouldn’t get caught. In those moments, she would ask about my flights, about my day, and simply say, “I’m just asking to be asking. I don’t really care.” I always answered her questions then, hoping she was telling the truth.

Thinking about the way she’d rode my cock in the Charlotte parking garage the other day, I smiled and finished reading the latest pompous news articles about the upcoming Elite gala and the “Amazing Era and Ambitious CEO of Elite” on my phone.