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Possessive Parisian Pilot
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She’s been mine since the first moment I saw her.
She’s about to miss her flight to Paris and I’m not about to miss my chance to be her possessive Parisian pilot, offering her a chance to fly first class with me…in more ways than one.
And this Parisian older man obsessed with this younger woman from abroad knows immediately that she’s the one. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt this way, and I’m going to make her mine and claim her in Paris before I put a ring on her finger and babies in her belly.
It’s her first time in France, and I’m going to be her first, and last, for life.
And I won’t stop until we’re a big ol’ French family with kids of all ages because the most important thing is life is having a family of our own. Family first. Family always. And this possessive Parisian pilot’s family starts and ends with her.
And to anyone who thinks Frenchmen are only lovers and not fighters…you’ll see just how mistaken you are if you try and make a move on what’s mine.
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“I’m sorry, ma’am. Boarding for this flight is now closed.”
“But I can see other passengers in the tunnel. They’re still in line. Look,” I say, holding up my ticket to the airline employee. “My ticket is right here. All you have to do is scan it and I’ll be in that line in like literally five seconds.”
The woman turns and points toward the monitor which displays, “BOARDING CLOSED.” The all caps are a nice touch.
“Look. I understand, and I was here at the airport three hours early but I was randomly selected,” I say making air quotes around those two words, “for further screening. I was taken in some room, stripped down to my freaking bra and panties only to find out that, ‘Oh sorry, you looked like someone else so we just wanted to be cautions. I’m sure you understand.’”
“Well, I guess you should have been here four hours early then,” she says as she rolls her hand over and looks at her fingernails hoping I’ll go away.
“Uh!” I say, breathing out hard.
Whatever happened to girl power and women lifting each other up? Where’s Gwen Stefani when you need her most?
Seemingly pleased with her manicurist’s work, the woman rolls her shoulders side to side and not so subtly pushes up her bra which at first I wouldn’t have guessed she was wearing based on how much cleavage she’s showing and how she had one too many buttons on her jacket undone, and throws her hair back.
I don’t know what I dislike more, her bitchy, holier than thou attitude, her impossible hip to waist ratio, or the fact that she’ll be boarding this plane, “late” of course, and I won’t.
My fingers squeeze hard against my small backpack which I’m carrying, thinking that if I swung this thing around the Kindle and two hardcovers inside slamming against the side of her head would definitely make this holiday season a little merrier for me at the moment, and not for this Grinch who is trying her hardest to steal my Christmas.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle. Can I help here?” The words come from just behind and off to the side of me, cloaking me as I spin to see who’s attached to the smoky, sensual sounds of English with a French accent that roll off the tongue like a knife through hot butter.
“Um…uh…” I feel my breath catch and my entire body clench as I take in the sight of the large man in the pilot’s uniform wearing aviator sunglasses inside L.A.X.
Sunglasses inside would normally have my douchebag sirens going off like a four a.m. fire alarm at the station, but in this case it works…oh my lord does it work.
It’s closing in on three in the afternoon in Los Angeles and the late day sun is shining right in through the windows, the glare making it almost impossible to see him that well until he steps to the side blocking out the entire reflection from the floor to ceiling windows that must be more than twenty feet.
“Yes, captain,” the Grinch says. “We have an unruly passenger and I was just getting ready to call security…and after that I was going to take my break…alone, unless…” she says twirling her finger in her hair.
Great. So she’s not a part of the flight crew, but instead she’ll be here at the airport making sure I get arrested for trespassing or some other nonsense charge here in the world’s biggest police state that goes by the name of California.
I hear the Grinch’s words, but I don’t turn to look at her…and neither does the pilot, unless he’s some sort of reptile.
I can’t make out his eyes through the deep green-gray shades of his Ray-Bans, but I can see his head, and his body, are now completely squared up to me.
“An unruly passenger, huh?” he says his body moving closer. “You’re being a bad girl this Christmas.”
“Um…no, I mean not exactly.”
“Well you know what they say. Good girls go to heaven, and bad girls go to…Paris,” he says taking me by the arm and leading me over to the next gate.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I say, but he doesn’t even turn to acknowledge my words as he leads away.
“There you are, captain,” the agent at the next gate over says. “We thought you weren’t going to make it,” the agent says winking at him.
Oh my god, I haven’t been on a date in I don’t know how long and this pilot has the most attractive woman and man I’ve seen all day hitting on him, not to mention this is L.A., where all the most beautiful people from all over the world come to make it in some sort of field that relies on them being the cream of the crop in terms of appearance.
And here he is holding me by the arm like I’m his, with a possessiveness I’ve never experienced before.