The Mile High Club. It’s not exactly an exclusive club, but I figure I can call myself a VIP member. You know what I’m talking about right? This isn’t a credit card membership with reward points; I’m talking about getting hot and dirty while forty thousand feet up in the air.

Right now I’m crossing the Atlantic, making my way back to New York City, and I’ve decided to renew my membership. It’s not like I do it every time I enter a plane, but whenever a hot man catches my eye … well, you know, I don’t really like wasting opportunities such as these.

“Oh, baby, that’s so good,” the man I’m riding groans, his head thrown back against the seat as I straddle him, bucking my hips fiercely while his cock slides in and out of me. He isn’t exactly big, but at least he’s proficient enough with the inches he has, which is saying something, really. Most men have no idea how to pleasure a woman and that is, for me, one of the biggest tragedies of the 21^st century. I shudder whenever I read one of those magazine articles about women who've never had an orgasm. I mean, seriously? Who lives like that?

Riding Paul hard—I only know his name because of the golden nametag on his shirt—I bury my fingernails in his back and rake them across his shoulder blades. Even though he’s still wearing his white shirt, I’m betting I just left a few red marks for him to remember me once I’m gone.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so good, baby,” he continues, groaning and repeating his words from before. Yeah, most men also have no idea how to talk dirty to a woman.

“Of course I’m good,” I moan, looking him in the eyes and offering him a devilish grin. Reaching for the pilot cap on his head, I steal it from him and then prop it up on my own head, tilting it sideways. “I’m the captain of your cock now,” I add, a devilish chuckle on my lips as I sway my hips back and forth. My dress is all bunched around my waist and, even though the top is still on, that doesn’t stop him from squeezing my tits hard, his hungry fingers moving across my round swells as if he’s playing a banjo.

“The captain of my cock,” he repeats after me, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper. He looks at the pilot cap on my head and grins; then, remembering something, his eyes widen as a serious expression takes over his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, stopping every single movement. “Sorry, baby, let me just … uhm …” Leaning forward, his face almost pressed between my tits, he reaches behind me and taps a few red buttons on the giant dashboard behind me.

“Don’t tell me you can’t focus with me in here?” I purr, still bucking my hips at him, although, yeah, I’m doing it slower now. I don’t want him to get so distracted he plunges us both (and the rest of the crew) straight to our deaths.

Yeah, in case you haven’t noticed, my friend here is the pilot of the jet currently forty thousand feet up in the air. What can I say? There’s something about men in uniform.

The moment I saw him come in, pilot cap tucked under his arm, gallant smile on his face and a short scruffy beard … well, I immediately knew how I’d be spending some of my time on this flight. A few hours into our flight and I got up, knocked on the pilot’s cabin, and invited myself for a tour of the cockpit (now that’s an apt name, don’t you think?). The other pilot excused himself and, from there, it was only a matter of time until I pulled Paul’s pants down to his knees and sat on top of him, hiking my dress up to my waist.

Now, you’re probably thinking that I’m being completely irresponsible by fucking with a pilot while he should be focused on maneuvering a metallic box with wings through the sky. Well, I won’t argue with you there. But it’s not like I’m endangering hundreds of people right now; this is a private jet plane and, aside from me, the two pilots and another crew member, it’s completely empty.

All that probably raises another question, right? Like, who the hell am I to be aboard a private jet? Some blockbuster actress, or maybe someone part of the fancy European royalty? Nope, none of that. The name’s Eliza Seymour and I’m just a girl trying to find her place in the world. Okay, sure, I have a few (or, well, more than a few) billions to my name, but not everything is as easy as it seems.

You’ve probably already heard about the Seymour family and its irresponsible heir (that’d be me). It seems that the tabloids have developed a crush on me, and my antics. In part, that’s my fault and I know it. I should be lying low, not hopping from city to city in Europe while attending the craziest parties. But, oh well, what’s a girl to do?

This all started more than ten years ago, when my mother passed. I was just eight years old when that happened and I still remember how it made me feel, the sudden realization that human life was as fickle as a cloud in the sky. At the time, the combined net worth of my parents put the Seymour family atop the Forbes list, and you can imagine how the tabloids reacted when my mother died. They went completely berserk, running stories for weeks on end, fabricating all kinds of bullshit. They even went as far as saying that my mother had a drug problem, and that she died from an overdose. My mother never even touched a joint in her life, for God’s sake! My father tried to shelter me from that madness the best that he could, but in the end, he couldn’t stop the world from revealing its ugliness before the eyes of an eight-year-old girl.

Perhaps wanting me to have a mother figure in my life, my father then ended up marrying a woman named Wanda (now the proud Wanda Seymour). We never really got along, although I tried to play nice in order to make my father happy. Of course, I don’t think that after my mother died that happy would be an adjective you could apply to my father. He just dragged his feet through life, the loss that he suffered weighing on him like a stone hanging from his neck. In the end, I think that sadness was what killed him.

You read that right: a few years after my mother passed away, my father died as well. I was only sixteen then, which meant I fell under the shadow of my stepmother, Wanda. The thing is, when my father died, I stopped trying to pretend I got along with her. Not that she seemed to care; with all the money my father left her, she was a busy bee most days.

Of course, she was never happy about the fact that my father locked most of the Seymour family fortune in a trust fund meant only for me. Still, she kept busy enough by trying to climb the ranks of high-society. When I turned 18, my mother married an up-and-coming finance titan, Derek Stackford. I only saw him a few times but, to me, he looked more like a model than a finance genius.

Then, when that marriage fell apart, my mother wasted no time and married a young hedge fund manager. A true heavy hitter: Carter Blake. Of course, that didn’t last long either. In the span of just two years, my mother managed to marry and divorce two rich (and handsome, let’s not be coy about that) men, and her fortune grew in accordance to that. Yeah, divorces are expensive things for rich men.

Although both Derek and Carter were nice enough to me, it’s not like I really got to know them. When I turned eighteen I went away for college, following my father’s footsteps and enrolling at the Wharton Business School. After graduating, I decided to take a break from all the madness in my life: I packed my bags, booked a private flight, and found my way to Europe. To be honest with you, I didn’t know what I was expecting when I moved to Europe … And since I had no expectations, I quickly got sucked into a world of partying and sex. I spent one year in Ibiza, then I moved to London and, finally, to Paris.

The world was my oyster.

Now that I’ve turned 25, I finally decided to come back to the place I called home for most of my life: New York City. Want to know why I decided to do it now? Easy: my trust fund has just kicked in, in its entirety, and now I’m responsible for the whole Seymour estate. We’re talking $250 billion, so you can understand how much money we’re talking about here. There’s a caveat to that, of course: if it looks like I’m doing a bad job, the courts can appoint Wanda as a trustee. And, knowing her as I do, I wouldn’t be too surprised if I found out she’s rooting for me to crash and burn spectacularly.

But you know what? At 25 I’m more than ready to assume my role as a Seymour. I haven’t been applying myself for the last few years, but now it’s time to change all that. It’s time for me to make a comeback.

“Baby, I, I think I—oh, fuck,” the pilot under me groans, the lines around his eyes deepening as pleasures washes all over my face. Jesus, I was so distracted with telling you my life story that I almost forgot what I was doing.

“Do it,” I whisper, placing both my hands on his chest and swaying my hips hard enough to break his cock in half. Closing my eyes, I surrender to the moment and let my unconscious mind dictate the movements of my body. I hold my breath as I feel pleasure bubbling up inside of me, spiraling up my spine and finally blossoming inside my head in an explosion of bright colors.

“Oh,” I moan, gritting my teeth as my muscles tense up and my pussy tightens up around his cock. In that exact moment, I feel his cock twitch and spasm, and he takes both hands to my ass and squeezes both my cheeks harshly as he thrusts up with as much strength as he can.

We remain frozen in place, ecstasy washing over our bodies, and it takes a few seconds for me to realize that I’m holding my breath. Breathing in deeply, I throw my head back and smile, opening up my eyes.

“That was so … amazing,” he whispers, looking into my eyes with an enamored expression. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m going to talk him into having dinner with me, or some bullshit like that, but if so, he’s out of luck.

I’m not that kind of girl.

Raising my hips, I pop his cock out of me, and then swing one leg over his body, going up to my feet and straightening the front of my dress with one hand.

“It was good,” I tell him with a smile. I might not be the romantic kind, but it doesn’t hurt to be polite from time to time.

You see, I’m not a big believer in love. The way I see it, love is something made up by a marketing department so that more chocolates can be sold. Sure, once in a lifetime something that would deserve to be called ‘love’ appears; I believe I once saw something you could call ‘love’ when both my parents were alive. The way they looked into each other’s eyes, and the way they held hands… You know, it was magical. Unfortunately, that’s something as rare as winning the lottery, and I sure as hell am not stupid enough to fall for something like that. I’m not a gambler.

I’m all for sex, but love just isn’t my cup of tea.

“So, uhm,” the pilot starts, awkwardly unrolling the condom off his cock and pulling his pants up. “We are about to, uhm … start our descent into New York airspace.” Leaning forward, he taps a few more buttons and then glances around the dashboard, perhaps trying to check if he missed anything while he was distracted with me.

“Sure, I’ll go back to my seat,” I smile at him and, without a word more, turn on my heels and get out of the cockpit. The other pilot is standing by the door, and he throws me a furtive glance as he watches me walk down the aisle toward my seat. Yeah, he was listening in and, judging by the bulging shape in his pants, he was enjoying all of my moaning. Good for him.

Sinking down into my seat, I fasten my seatbelt and reach for the champagne in the side drawer. I pour myself a glass, and that’s when the pilot I was with gets out of the cockpit and makes his way toward me.

“Yeah?” I ask him, arching one eyebrow. God, I hope he isn’t going to ask me out.

“I just got word from the airport… There seems to be a lot of press in there waiting for you, Eliza—uhm, Ms. Seymour.”

Sigh. Of course, the hounds have caught the scent of blood and now they’re coming for me. Well, let them come.

“Thank you,” I thank the pilot, and then raise the glass to my lips and down the whole thing as he disappears back into the cockpit. A few minutes after and the plane starts cutting through the mantle of clouds, their whiteness blanketing us as we head down.

I gaze out of the window as the silhouette of New York City slowly rises in the distance, greeting me like an old friend, and I feel a pang of heartbreak inside of me. I tried to distance myself from a life I wasn’t sure I wanted, but now it’s time to face the music.

My name is Eliza Seymour, and I've come back to claim what’s mine.