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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Black Box Series
- Sprache: Englisch
A scorching thriller that expertly balances steamy romance with corporate intrigue. — Kirkus Reviews
Morgan Delgado doesn't lose control. As the fleet director for the largest airline in the country, she commands hundreds of aircraft, manages chaos like clockwork, and survives on caffeine, grit, and reputation alone. Climbing the ladder in a male-dominated industry left no room for mistakes-or desires. Until a single night with veteran pilot Kieran O'Hara blows her armor to pieces.
Kieran is everything Morgan avoids: charming, commanding, and far too perceptive. He's logged more miles in the air than most people drive in a lifetime, but nothing prepares him for the storm that is Morgan Delgado. Their one-night stand was supposed to be just that-until fate puts them on the same high-stakes operation, and neither of them can walk away.
What begins as a tense workplace collision spirals into something darker, as she uncovers a corporate conspiracy prioritizing profit over safety. And the only person Morgan can trust is the last man she should be sleeping with.
In a world where pressure defines survival, their connection becomes a lifeline-and a liability. Kieran's past is a crash site of grief, bad habits, and near-misses he can't outrun, while Morgan's relentless pursuit of the truth may cost her everything: her career, her safety, and her heart.
Burn Rate is a romantic suspense novel with professional stakes, blistering heat, and an unflinching heroine who refuses to go down easy. For readers who crave strong women, dominant heroes, and explosive love stories tangled in secrets and trauma, this is the emotional survival romance you've been waiting for.
Aviation fiction meets dark romance in this high-conflict, high-altitude story of love under pressure, where emotional survival is just as vital as staying airborne. If you're into intense romance stories with thrilling suspense, trauma, and power plays at 35,000 feet-strap in.
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Seitenzahl: 375
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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BURN RATE
THE BLACK BOX SERIES
KIM SERRANO
Burn Rate
© 2025 Kim Serrano
First edition, published June 2025
Published by Switch + Stern
switchandstern.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Kim Serrano
ISBN: 9798999726407
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Content Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
Next in the Black Box Series
Also by Kim Serrano
About the Author
CONTENT WARNING
This book contains:
Reader discretion is advised.
1
Morgan had logged over a million miles in the air. She’d made peace with every common jetliner in the fleet. But this one? The CRJ-700. She hated this thing.
A regional jet with seats too narrow, overhead bins that mocked tall passengers, and a nose that rattled her skull on final descent. The CRJ’s short wingspan made it hypersensitive to turbulence—just unstable enough in crosswinds to make every landing feel like a dice roll.
It was the only aircraft that ever made her slightly motion sick. But only on landings. And only when the wind played dirty.
Which was why what had just happened shouldn’t have been possible.
She knew the route. She knew the weather—gusty headwinds from the north, just strong enough to throw most regional pilots off their axis. But this descent? It was poetry.
The flare was textbook. The alignment was surgical.
The touchdown— It wasn’t a touchdown.
It was a benediction.
That floating sensation right before the wheels kissed the ground. It lingered like a prayer. A brief, impossible pause between flight and arrival. The pilot hadn’t just managed the ground effect—they’d embraced it, letting the lift cradle the jet like it had permission to linger.
No. This landing—it unspooled her.
The second the wheels met the tarmac—no, kissed it—something in her chest gave way. Like a ribbon loosening from the inside out.
Her body knew before her brain did. It lifted—suspended in that hush between sky and earth, held tenderly by nothing but skill and air. Something quiet and animal in her recognized it: the feel of being fully handled, but never forced. Not taken—guided. Not rushed—claimed. The kind of control that asked permission. She didn’t know what it was yet. Only that it made something old and sharp inside her go quiet.
The plane didn’t thud or jerk. It just arrived. Like it had always known where to land. Like it had always known the way.
Her fingers curled around the armrest—not in fear, but reverence.
Whoever flew this bird…
She wanted to shake their hand. Or write them a love letter. Or just ask—how? Who taught you how to bring something this heavy down so softly?.
She shifted in her seat remembering she had seen the pilot. She was late—last-minute security delay. She’d barely made it to Row Eight before the doors hissed shut. The flight attendant had waved her through, annoyed but resigned. And then—
Right before the latch locked—she glanced forward.
And saw the arm.
One hand resting on the center-mounted control stick. Lightly freckled skin, marked with a full sleeve tattoo—not trendy, not abstract. Old-school ink. Coils of flight lines, faded compass roses, storm clouds, wings. It moved when he moved. And he had that unmistakable posture of long-haul captains: relaxed but alert, spine straight, neck loose. Like he could land this thing in a thunderstorm with a blindfold and one hand tied behind his back.
And then—as if he felt her stare—
He turned. He was older than she expected. Not grizzled—refined.
Dark auburn hair, silver threading through at the temples. A clean-shaven jaw, laugh lines etched deep—earned, not inherited.
Hazel eyes, amber at the edges. The kind that turn gold in cockpit sunlight.
He looked...private. Like a man who’d spent too long at thirty-five-thousand feet and had learned to prefer silence over small talk.
Then his gaze caught hers.
And for a breathless second, she swore she heard it—a warning.
That yes, he was the kind of man who’d walk your grandma to church without missing a Sunday…and then ruin you in the back of a pickup after Mass.
The door clicked shut between them.
The world lurched into motion.
And then—much later—he landed her.
* * *
She was still thinking about it when she realized she’d left her work tablet in the seatback pocket.
A cardinal sin. She could already feel her deputy’s judgment radiating from four hundred miles away.
She stood, smoothing the sharp crease of her black trousers—tailored, always.
She made a beeline from Arrivals to Heritage’s navy-blue check-in counters, hoping to arrange a return to the gate.
The station manager spotted her immediately and took care of it. Now, nodding into the phone, the manager hung up and reassured her: someone was already on their way to hand it over.
She looked up at the sound of footsteps.
And then—him.
No blazer. No hat. Just a well-worn zip hoodie, dark gray, unzipped halfway down his chest. His pilot shirt was still visible underneath, collar slightly rumpled, tie nowhere in sight. The kind of low-effort, high-competence look that made her want to reevaluate every man she’d ever dated.
A pilot bag hung over one shoulder, slung like an afterthought. Then he saw her. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as he registered her.
Before she could stop herself— “You were the forearm.” Dear God. No. The words were out, floating between them like a blooper reel.
He raised one dark eyebrow. “Was I?”
She flushed. “No—I mean—yes. In the cockpit. I saw the sleeve. Your tattoo. From my seat. Row Eight. You had a…grip.”
His mouth twitched.
Not quite a smirk. Not yet. Just the ghost of amusement. “I see.”
She exhaled, mortified. “I didn’t mean it in a weird way. It’s just—you landed so smooth. Like offensively smooth. For a CRJ, that’s rare.”
That finally got him.
He smiled. A real one—small, crooked, warm. It curled up gently, like he wasn’t used to smiling but still remembered how. “Well.” He extended his tattooed arm, offering a small black case. Her tablet—of course.
“Glad I could be of service, from the elbow down,” he said dryly.
She wished she could rewind time—back to the second she’d leaned into the aisle for a better look at him before takeoff. That was it. That might have been the point of no return.
“Thanks,” she murmured, eyes dropping to the floor.
He nodded and handed it to her so calmly—like he hadn’t just surgically landed a flying tin can in crosswinds like it was a luxury glider. Like he wasn’t standing there in a hoodie that should not be allowed to fit that well.
“You really didn’t have to play errand boy.”
He shrugged. “The gate attendant who was gonna bring it down had to clock out early—family emergency.”
A pause. Then, like it was nothing: “I was headed this way anyway.”
“Of course,” she said. They both turned, awkward in that way only strangers with too much unspoken tension can be.
“Good night, Gina,” she called over her shoulder.
“Night, Morgan,” the station manager replied brightly.
“See you bright and early tomorrow?”
“Yep. Crack of dawn.” The pilot gave Gina a nod too. “Take care.”
“Will do,” Gina said, far too amused. Her gaze bounced between them, unmistakably twinkling.
Morgan felt her face heat. He did not help by doing absolutely nothing. Just walking beside her at a perfectly measured pace across the terminal that seemed larger than before.
Then—
“I’m not following you,” he said. Morgan blinked, mid-step. He gestured toward the sliding doors ahead. “My truck’s in the garage past the shuttle stop. I’m not—we’re just headed the same way.”
She bit back a laugh.
“You’re clarifying that like a man who’s been accused before.” He gave a small shrug. “I’ve learned to narrate my movements.”
They kept walking. The sliding doors hissed open, releasing them into the night. Cool breeze. The sharp tang of jet fuel. Overwatered landscaping. At the curb, the hotel shuttle waited—lights on, engine low and steady.
Her room was booked. She was supposed to raid the vending machine and pass out with a backlog of emails and a single keycard.
But instead—
She turned to him. Still in that hoodie. Still infuriatingly competent. One foot already on the crosswalk.
“You know,” she said slowly, pulse kicking up, “if you followed me right now, I wouldn’t stop you.”
He paused. The curb hummed beneath them.
“I’ve got a room. Sleep tank. Just overnight. I’m here till morning.” She looked at him. “That’s not an invitation if you don’t want it. But if you do—yeah. I mean it.”
Something passed behind his eyes then. Something cooler. Older. Like he knew the exact weight of a moment like this. Not surprise. Just the quiet recognition of a door opening without a sound. She held her breath. Don’t retract. Don’t soften it. Just stand in it. The hotel shuttle engine stuttered. He took his time answering. She wasn’t used to this kind of silence after making a move. She knew she was hot—objectively, unapologetically. When she invited, men said yes. Always. But now, standing at the curb while he parsed her offer, she felt something rare flicker in her chest—uncertainty.
Then: “I hadn’t planned—”
“Oh,” she said quickly, mortified. “I’m so sorry, I misread—”
He tilted his head slightly, and she stopped. Realized he wasn’t done. “—but plans can change,” he finished.
Her pulse stuttered.
His voice was soft. Measured. Like re-routing a flight path. There’s weather over the Rockies—we’ll adjust accordingly. He looked at her. At her. Not through, not past. Then down at the case in her hand. “You gonna need that tonight?” She blinked, thrown.
“What—my tablet?”
“Yeah.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Or are you offline until morning?”
Her mouth went dry.
“I can be offline,” she said. He nodded once. Unhurried. Like he’d already done the math and found it viable.
“Alright then,” he said. “Lead the way.”
2
The shuttle ride was awkward. Not tense, exactly. Just…unspoken. Two adults sitting side by side, pretending not to think about what they’d just agreed to.
He stared out the window. She stared at her phone. Neither said much.
At the hotel, he lingered near the front desk while she checked in, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, gaze fixed on the lobby carpet like it had secrets to tell.
When the clerk asked, “How many keys?” she hesitated.
Then: “Two, please.”
She felt the blush rise before she could stop it. Didn’t look over to see if he noticed.
In the elevator, they stood side by side again. Close, but not touching.
The soft, tinny notes of the Carpenters filled the small space.
“Why do birds suddenly appear…”
She almost laughed.
And then—softly, without warning—he hummed along. It was nothing. Just a few quiet bars, perfectly in tune. But it cracked something. His serious facade, all that calm precision—gone for a second. And there it was again, the flutter in her chest she couldn’t shake.
Morgan shut the hotel room door behind him with a quiet click. They didn’t speak. For a moment, they stood frozen, the space between them wide and strange. The room was quiet, dim, washed in the glow of the blue runway lights outside the window. It had a perfect view—planes idling, lifting, landing in slow motion, everything silver and navy against the night. Pretty, in a sterile kind of way.
He looked around like he was trying to catalog the furniture. She crossed her arms and stared at the wall behind him.
This was the part no one warned you about—the moment after yes, when you were still two people with clothes on, not quite ready to undo the hours of adrenaline and decision-making that had led here.
He offered to shower first. She nodded, grateful.
The door shut behind him and she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since takeoff.
She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her reflection in the dark TV screen, still trying to get her face to relax.
When he came out, towel around his waist, she nodded again and grabbed her things.
The shower was too hot. Her pulse thudded in her throat even as she tried to slow it down under the spray.
By the time she came back into the room, her face was calm again. Her stomach was not.
He was in his boxers, sitting at the edge of the bed now, sipping a ginger ale he’d found in the mini fridge. The lamplight didn’t do him justice, but it tried. The clean, lean lines of his body were the kind that didn’t come from vanity—just years of moving with purpose. Muscle where it counted. Definition that didn’t ask for attention but held it anyway. His posture was straight, strong, almost annoyingly confident. Both arms were sleeved in ink—full coverage from biceps to wrists. Not flashy. Not for show. Old school linework and bold color, worn-in like everything else about him.
Morgan let her eyes trace the shapes without letting her expression give her away.
The tattoos sharpened the impression that he had lived more life than he let on. His skin was ruddy, freckled in patches.
His hair—dark, with silver threading through the sides—looked like it had been tugged at one too many times today.
He wasn’t particularly hairy, which felt like its own quiet surprise. Just heat and muscle and ink, sitting quietly in a hotel room like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was the kind of pretty that crept up on you—sharp lines, a soft mouth, and a face that made no damn sense all together.
She caught his eye and moved to the small table. She set down the condoms, deliberate. No commentary. Just logistics.
He nodded, didn’t say a word. His gaze held steady.
“I’ve been tested,” she said. Her voice came out steady. “You?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
She cracked open the tiny hotel whiskey bottle, tossed it back, then chased it with a Diet Coke. It burned just enough. She offered another whiskey bottle to him without meeting his eye.
“I’m good,” he said, same even tone.
Now they were here. Half-naked.
She sat next to him on the bed in a black La Perla slip—minimal, deliberate. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
The room felt too still, like even the air was holding its breath. They watched the runway. The last flight of the evening revved, barreled forward, lifted into the dark. She let herself exhale.
She hated this part. The stilted, silent calculus of two adults pretending they weren’t strangers. But she wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not of what would come next.
She felt the shift before she saw it—him moving toward her. And then his hand was under her chin, gentle, warm. She looked up just in time to meet his eyes.
He kissed her. Not rushed. Not claiming. Just a long, unhurried kiss—like he was making sure she had time to change her mind.
She pulled him into bed and on top of her, fingers curled tight on the back of his neck like she couldn’t stand the distance one more second. He landed solid against her, warm and broad, and kissed her like he meant to memorize the shape of her mouth.
It didn’t stop. It went on and on—slow, open-mouthed, aching kisses. Every time she tried to deepen it, he pulled back just enough to make her chase him.
He wasn’t rushing anything. He was drawing it out like he had nowhere else to be. Like he was savoring her. Like he was trying to be gentle. It made her dizzy. It also made her want to scream.
She broke from the kiss just enough to ask, a little breathless, a little annoyed, “You always this polite when you fuck someone?”
His head turned slowly. Eyes sweeping over her face like she was a problem he’d already solved.
It hit her harder than any touch. Like he was waiting for her to check herself. He didn’t say a word. Just stared her down, steady and patient.
It pissed her off. It also made her thighs clench. And there it was. That spark at the center of her. Low and hot and hungry.
Morgan barely had time to breathe before he shifted—just a slight move, deliberate, unapologetic. His hips slid between her thighs like it was always meant to happen this way. There was no rush. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of a man who didn’t need to posture.
She felt him—hard, thick, and pressing right where she was already aching. Her body answered before her mind caught up, thighs tightening around his sides. The contact was maddening. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. But it promised everything.
He leaned in close as he spoke—low, quiet, a command dressed as a dare.
“If you’re going to act out,” he murmured, voice edged with amusement and warning, “make it worth my time.”
Before she could come up with something sharp enough to answer, his hand closed around her wrists. Not cruel. Just final. He raised them above her head and pinned them there with a single hand like it was nothing, like he had all night.
His other hand didn’t move. His hips didn’t grind. He didn’t need to. That stillness was the show. He wasn’t trying to impress her.
His mouth brushed the shell of her ear, voice low enough it barely counted as sound.
“This what you want?”
She nodded, breath caught in her throat. He didn’t move.
“Use your words.”
"Yes," she said, the word slipping out more raw than she'd intended.
That was all it took. He pressed into her, the full length of him dragging against the slick heat between her legs, the silk slip a useless barrier. She gasped, hips twitching up, but he didn’t let her set the rhythm.
He stripped her. Fingers at the hem of her slip, he didn’t rush. He peeled it up her body inch by inch, his eyes locked on hers like the real reveal wasn’t her skin—it was her reaction. Control shifted with every inch exposed. She tried not to squirm. Tried not to give him the satisfaction. Failed.
The slip cleared her head and he tossed it aside. His gaze dropped. Heat flared—undeniable, hungry. Then he exhaled, barely, like the sight of her knocked something loose in him. But it passed in a blink. That self-control snapped back into place like it never left.
She broke from his grasp and reached for the waistband of his boxers. He caught her wrist mid-motion.
“Hands stay where I put them.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was law. And he meant every word.
Her brain was static. Thoughts fractured, scattered. There was no plan now, no strategy—just heat, just need, just the way her body kept tightening under his. He moved like he knew every inch of her already, like he’d memorized her without needing to ask.
His hand came to her throat—not squeezing. Just there. Grounding her like she might fly apart if he didn’t anchor her. She moaned without meaning to.
He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Every word he’d chosen so far landed like a command. No softness. No over-explaining. Just enough to make her want more.
His mouth found the spot just under her jaw that made her legs shake. Teeth dragging. Tongue chasing the sting. Her hips arched—he didn’t react. He was too busy. Sinking lower. Sucking bruises into her skin. Biting the swell of her breast, licking over the hurt, then doing it again.
By the time his mouth closed around her nipple, she couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Just sounds.
Then he was gone from her chest, moving down, spreading her open like it was his right. And then—
Then he tasted her.
And there was no thought left at all.
Every nerve was lit. Every breath came out like a moan she couldn’t swallow. Her hips moved without permission, chasing friction, chasing him, chasing anything that might break the edge holding her there. Still, he hadn’t fucked her. And still, she was already gone.
Her hands moved. Not wildly—just enough to test him. One slid down to trace his chest, nails light, teasing, hungry.
He caught her wrist again. No warning this time. Just a firm grip.
“I said stay still.”
She should have pulled away. Should have cursed him out, rolled her eyes, something. But her pulse only jumped harder under his fingers. She tried again—subtle, a shift of her thigh, an arch of her back meant to throw him off rhythm. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He flipped her over without a word. Her knees hit the bed, thighs parted, her palms pressing into the mattress out of instinct.
Then his arm wrapped around her waist. He held her there, chest hovering just behind her, body braced like he was anchoring her in place.
There was no room to move. No angle she controlled.
His hand slipped between her legs. The pressure was immediate. Direct. No circling, no guessing—he found her clit and touched her like he already knew her body better than she did.
She came so fast she didn’t believe it was happening. Her hands clenched the sheets. Her vision blurred. Her mind blanked out, just a string of moans and the impossible feel of him pushing her over the edge before he’d even fucked her.
Some part of her, far away, was shocked. She’d never come like that. Not from fingers. Not that fast. Not from anyone.
But then she heard the sound of the condom wrapper tearing and he was inside her. One thrust, deep and rough, punched the air from her lungs. It hurt. And it didn’t. Her body jolted with the force of it. It hit too deep, and she still wanted more.
The rhythm was brutal. Skilled, yes—but not showy. He didn’t care about being impressive. What ruined her was the way he handled her—like she was nothing to manage, nothing to fear, just something he could hold.
At some point, she stopped keeping track. Her mouth was open but she couldn’t hear herself anymore. Only the sound of his body hitting hers, the slap of skin, the way the bed creaked under the force of it.
He fucked her hard. No hesitation. No softness. Every thrust shook her, knocked sound out of her throat that she didn’t recognize. Her face burned. Her back arched. She felt it in her teeth.
He held her down like she had nowhere else to go, and he was right. She didn’t want to go anywhere. His hand came back to her throat, steady pressure, not too much. Just enough to remind her who had her. Her breasts were crushed against his arm where he held her tight to his chest.
Then he shifted her, still inside her, until they were both kneeling. She leaned back against him, body straining, open and trembling. He fucked up into her without slowing, without saying a word. His other hand reached around and touched her again, precise, relentless. Her vision went white. The orgasm hit fast and hard, her thighs already wet, her legs shaking under the weight of it.
He didn’t stop.
He let her taste herself on his fingers and she sucked greedily, tongue swirling, even as his rhythm remained unchanged. He kept going, violent, steady. She lost the thread of time. Couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours. Then he moved again, pushing her down flat against the mattress, pinning her face-first into the sheets. One hand gripped her tricep, the other braced between her sternum. He drove into her with everything he had.
When he came, it tore out of him. Low, rough, raw. A sound pulled from somewhere deep. She whimpered when she heard it. She couldn’t help it. It landed in her spine. He stayed like that for a moment. Heavy. Breathing hard. When he pulled out of her, she couldn’t move. Her body was spent, her breath caught somewhere in her chest. She felt the mattress under her, the air cooling her skin, her pulse still loud in her ears.
He reached over and brushed her hair back from her face. Not tender. Just practical. Like she was a person he didn’t want to see suffocate in her own sweat.
“You should sleep,” he said.
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her face was still pressed to the sheets, her mouth dry, her limbs heavy and uncooperative.
He pulled the blanket halfway over her before getting up and tossing the condom. She stayed where she was, blinking slowly at the bedside table, confused and raw, trying to remember what day it was.
Then her eyes closed, and she was out.
3
Morgan woke to warmth—real warmth, not hotel HVAC or the buzz of adrenaline she usually ran on. Her body was sore in the best possible way. Muscles in her back stretched as she rolled onto her side, and the dull ache in her thighs reminded her, vividly, of the night before.
Oh. Right.
She took a slow breath, like it might reset something. God, he still smelled like something she wasn’t supposed to want—like soap and jet fuel and sweat and sleep. His arm was draped across her waist, heavy and possessive, like they hadn’t just met twelve hours ago.
Not even met, technically. No names
She hadn’t wanted names. It had been safer that way.
He’d looked at her from the cockpit like he already knew her anyways One glance that said, Watch me land this lumbering, overworked metal like it’s a damn glider. Or maybe: Go ahead, try not to be impressed.
That kind of landing didn’t just happen. It was the work of a man who’d spent years in the left seat, someone who knew his aircraft like it was a second skin. Precision like that didn’t come from training manuals—it came from obsession. Control bordering on pathological.
And she had been impressed.
And now here she was. Covered in his fingerprints—literally. Faint purple marks bloomed along her hips and thighs, matching the ones on the inside of her biceps. Souvenirs from where he’d pinned her in place. Fucked her through the mattress. Made her forget every rule she usually kept etched behind her eyelids.
She shifted carefully, trying not to wake him, but his arm tightened around her.
“You ghosting me already?” he murmured, voice sleep-rough and soaked in smug.
Her breath hitched before she could help it. God. That voice had been in her ear all night. Growling her name—no. Not her name. He never said her name. He didn’t know it. She didn’t tell him. Because she didn't fuck nameless pilots the night before FAA meetings. But here she was.
“I have to go,” she said. Her voice came out calmer than she felt. Her throat was dry, lips swollen from where he’d kissed her like he was starving. “Early meeting.”
“Same,” he mumbled into the pillow.
Her stomach turned.
No. No, the universe wouldn’t be that cruel. There was no way he was—
Except she didn’t know his name. And she had skimmed the meeting details late last night on the airport shuttle, already dizzy from lust, thinking she could slide through this city undetected.
Her logic brain—usually so steady, so ruthlessly efficient it made other people nervous—had simply blinked out the second he walked up to her on the Arrivals floor. Like her brain had short-circuited, or worse—stepped out and left her body to fend for itself. She’d thought she was being careful. Thought she was still ten steps ahead. But clearly, the universe had other plans. Cruel, humiliating plans.
She slid out of bed, ignoring the protest in her legs. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—bruised, glowing, a little bit ruined—and hated how good she looked.
He watched her move, head tilted, still naked under the covers.
“Hey,” he said, voice gravelly in a way that made her knees consider betrayal. “Last night was—”
“Good,” she cut in. “Yeah. It was.”
That was the most he was getting. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t stop her. Just watched as she showered, dressed, and emerged in a fresh suit—sharp, dark, deliberate—like slipping back into armor. She walked to the door, hand on the handle, and finally glanced back.
“Goodbye.” Soft. Final. Polite, because she was raised right. And gone before he could answer.
* * *
In the elevator, she pulled out her phone—habit, muscle memory, something to do with her hands while the rest of her tried not to implode. The numbers on the screen blurred for a second. She blinked hard.
Something was wrong.
Not big, not yet. But a tension coiled low in her, whispering you forgot something in a voice that sounded too much like her mother’s.
She checked her calendar. There was that meeting. Nothing else.
And still—her stomach had that telltale twist, like the ground was about to shift beneath her and she was too proud to reach for the handrail.
9:30 a.m. - FAA coordination meeting.
Something about conflicting incident reports, cross-checks that didn’t match, and a flight crew filing directly with the feds.
It was the kind of thing that pulled in a fleet director, station leadership, and—unfortunately—the union.
She scrolled down, skimming—her brain still half-fogged from lack of sleep and multiple orgasms.
Then stopped.
Oh. Oh no.
Like a throwaway line at the bottom of the agenda—
Union representation: pilot rep to be present.
Her chest went tight. Like a vice clamped around her lungs. She reread the line, then again, waiting for it to say anything else. It didn’t. Pilot union rep. Just that.
Her stomach dropped so fast she had to grip the edge of her phone like it might steady her.
What if he was in that room? Who else would the pilot be?
It had to be him. Of course it was him.
Because who else would the universe dig up to humiliate her today, of all days?
She’d finally let her guard down—for one night, one mistake, one man with a voice that didn’t flinch and hands that moved like they were used to being obeyed—and now she was going to pay for it in front of her subordinates and FAA suits.
It wasn’t confirmed. There was no name. It could be anyone.
Maybe it was just the union brass, some retired pilot turned lobbyist, someone she could handle. But her gut already knew. Her gut always knew.
And this? This felt like a setup.
Like punishment. Like karma in a pilot’s uniform.
4
Kieran O’Hara showed up fifteen minutes early, because showing up early was just good manners.
His Air Force pilot father used to say if you weren’t early, you were already late, and even now, decades into a career that had taken him from puddle jumpers to widebodies, he still operated like he had something to prove.
He was hoping this meeting would be quick and painless—just another dull FAA briefing with some middle manager reading bullet points off a PowerPoint like they were trying to sedate the room. He was flying tonight and had a vet appointment for Scout and Daisy this afternoon, and he'd really rather not spend the in-between being lectured on compliance like he hadn’t been flying for twenty-seven goddamn years.
He stirred his coffee, black and burned, out of habit more than necessity. Nothing fancy. Just hot enough to remind him he was still alive.
He didn’t know how he kept ending up in these rooms. He thought he was done with union politics—done being the guy who stood up and made noise while everyone else ducked their heads. But Chuck had called in a favor, again, with that familiar "buddy, I need you" tone, and Kieran, like an idiot, had said yes.
He just wanted to fly. That was it. Fly, go home, walk the dogs, check in on Ren, fake like he knew the difference between a “dip” and a “death drop,” and fall asleep halfway through whatever new Drag Race season they were texting him about.
But no. Here he was, reviewing meeting notes in the corner of a gray conference room, thinking about compliance regs and hoping nobody made eye contact.
Kieran followed the FAA guy into the conference room, a few steps behind, coffee in hand, not expecting anything worth remembering.
The woman at the head of the table made him stop dead.
She was already seated, tablet balanced in one hand, flipping through briefing notes like she wrote them. She didn’t look up when they entered. She didn’t have to. The room already belonged to her.
Gina, the airport station manager, glanced up and smiled politely as they walked in.
"This is A. Morgan Delgado," she said. "Fleet Director of U.S. Operations for Heritage Airlines."
Kieran’s stomach dropped so fast he thought he might actually have to sit down.
Fleet Director.
Heritage.
Her.
From last night. From the hotel. From his hands.
He managed to keep his face neutral—he had nearly three decades of cockpit training to thank for that—but it cost him. Every nerve in his body lit up at once, short-circuiting under his skin.
The FAA Guy, oblivious, laughed like he was already halfway through a bad joke.
"Huh. You’re Morgan Delgado? All these years, I thought you were a man."
Kieran had to resist the urge to bounce the man’s head off the nearest wall.
Jesus Christ. Read the goddamn room.
Morgan didn’t flinch. She didn’t even shift in her chair.
She just looked up at the FAA guy, expression blank, and said,
“I’m sure you’ll adjust.”
Kieran felt it cut through the room like a pressure drop. No raised voice. No drama. Just precision. Authority without apology.
And it hit him hard—this wasn’t a woman who argued.
Gina kept rolling like nothing happened. She waved a hand toward Kieran.
“And this is Captain Kieran O’Hara. Representing the pilots’ union. Filling in for Chuck Meyers today.”
Kieran nodded once, professional, quiet, trying not to betray that he knew how the woman at the head of the table tasted.
Morgan didn’t react. Not visibly.
But her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary. A slow, deliberate pass.
He wondered if anyone else could feel it—the tension stretching between them, thin and taut like a live wire.
The FAA guy, either too stupid to read the room or too stubborn to care, chuckled again.
“You know,” he said, waving his coffee cup like a drunk uncle at a barbecue, "you remind me of that other ball-breaker—Ava Thompkins. Ran Heritage through 9/11. Real firecracker. Just like you."
Kieran kept his face neutral, but inside he was rolling his eyes so hard he was about to pull a muscle.
Sure. Let’s just lump every woman who scares you into the same category. Real original.
Morgan Delgado set her tablet down with a soft clack that somehow sounded like a gunshot.
She didn’t even glance at him. Just started speaking, cool and unbothered, addressing the room without missing a beat—and leaving him right where he belonged: ignored.
Her voice was calm. Direct. No filler words. No hesitation.
She laid out the fleet projections, the upcoming regulatory changes, and operational priorities with the kind of authority Kieran usually only heard from captains with twenty thousand hours and zero patience for bullshit.
She didn’t just push numbers around, either. She brought up crew reports without being asked, cited maintenance feedback from last month’s field audit, and pointed out a policy change already signed into effect—one that cut turnaround time pressure and gave flight crews more discretion without management breathing down their necks.
She was doing the thing half the room had been begging for.
The FAA guy snorted, half under his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Wow. Caved fast, didn’t you? That’s not what your predecessor would’ve done.”
The silence that followed was ugly.
Morgan didn’t even look up from her notes.
She just said, steady as a blade,
“No, it’s not. That’s why I have his job now.”
The FAA guy didn’t say another word.
Kieran wasn’t sure if he wanted to stand up and applaud or drop to one knee.
He glanced back down at the briefing notes, willing himself to look normal.
He tried—really tried—to focus on the packet in front of him. The words. The charts. The action items.
One of the charts flashed by mentioning the 7X rollout schedules. Kieran flagged it automatically in his head—there were already murmurs in the union chatter about those planes. Too many quirks for brand-new metal. Crews weren't thrilled.
But it was like trying to ignore a thunderstorm from the middle of a cornfield.
All he could hear was her voice from last night, wrecked and low in his ear.
All he could see was the way her mouth looked this morning when she was still asleep against his shoulder.
All he could feel was the steady, rising certainty that he was well and truly fucked.
And all he could think about—over and over, like a heartbeat—was whether she regretted it.
And how badly he wanted her to look at him again like she had when she unraveled in his hands.
Morgan didn’t look at him until she needed to.
Which somehow made it worse.
She finished a point about regional fleet allocations, tapped a note on her tablet, and then finally—finally—lifted her gaze.
“Captain O’Hara,” she said, like his name was just another item on her checklist. Nothing special. Nothing personal.
“You’ve flown the 700 series routes out of Midway this quarter. Are the fatigue reports consistent with what your crews are experiencing?”
Her tone was polite.
But to him?
It sounded exactly like you’re up, hotshot—let’s see if you’re useful or just pretty.
Kieran cleared his throat, just once.
Sat up straighter.
He did the thing they taught him in therapy—took the thought, the memory of her voice in his ear and her mouth on his neck, and shoved it into the mental box. Closed the lid. Took a breath. Focused.
“Yeah,” he said, steady. “Midway crews flagged the turnaround pressure during shift briefings. Not just fatigue—comp issues are spiking too. We’re burning time chasing paper trails because maintenance isn’t getting access windows. Your update should buy us twenty extra minutes per leg. That’s going to fix more than the FAA realizes.”
He kept his voice even. Kept it clipped.
Made it sound like he hadn't been naked in her hotel bed six hours ago.
Morgan’s eyes flicked up from her tablet. Just for a second.
There was a glint—sharp, almost amused. Not surprised, not patronizing.
Noted.
Then she nodded.
“Good. We’ll fold that into the final draft.”
And just like that, she moved on.
The rest of the meeting was standard cleanup—brief questions, bureaucratic nodding.
Even the FAA guy, still nursing whatever was left of his pride, grudgingly accepted the terms Morgan laid out.
When the final point was wrapped, she dismissed them with a crisp, “That’s all. Thank you for your time,” and the room moved.
The others had filed out with their binders and laptops, trailing half-finished conversations and bad coffee breath.
The door clicked shut behind the last one, and for a moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the overhead lights.
They were the last two in the room.
Kieran stood there, half-turned, not quite ready to leave.
He hadn’t said anything yet, but the impulse was rising—something between an apology and a question he had no business asking.
Maybe just thank you. Maybe was it real. Maybe do you regret it.
Morgan didn’t let him speak. She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t even look up from the tablet she was closing.
“They already think I don’t belong here,” she said, even, final. “I’m not giving them a reason to say it out loud.”
Then she looked at him. Direct. No anger. No shame. Just clarity.
“I can’t afford mistakes. I’m trusting you to understand that.”
It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a request.
She wasn’t asking him to be discreet—she was assuming he already would be.
And the way she said it, cool and practiced, told him exactly what she’d learned from experience: Men disappointed her. Enough that she’d stopped waiting for them to do the right thing without a reminder.
He took it like a gut punch. Not because she was wrong. Because she shouldn’t have had to say it at all.
Kieran nodded, jaw tight. “You have my word.”
That was all. That was enough.
He turned toward the door. Forced himself to leave without another look back. Almost. As he reached the threshold, something made him glance over his shoulder.
Morgan stood at the head of the empty room, tablet clutched tight in one hand. For a second—barely long enough to trust it—he saw it: devastation, raw and unguarded, flashing across her face before the mask snapped back into place.
She didn’t move. She didn’t call after him. She just looked down again, sealing herself away.
He left. Not because he was ashamed. Not because he regretted it. But because he felt the loss settle under his ribs, quiet and heavy, like something he'd barely had the chance to want before it was already gone. And mostly because he respected her too much to make it any harder than it already was.
5
The air at O’Hare hit her first.
Jet fuel, stale coffee, the low growl of taxiing planes pressing against the heat. The pavement steamed under the weight of July.
Nothing had changed.
The terminal windows glared against the sun. Trucks beeped in the distance, half-hearted, already losing the battle to the late afternoon.
Morgan stepped out of the Heritage Airline building and into the employee lot, her shoes clicking against the concrete with the kind of authority that didn’t ask for permission.
Her honey-brown skin had deepened to a richer shade, the sun working into her the way time did—slow, relentless. She walked like someone who had survived something ugly and won something real.
Around her, the lot buzzed with half-second glances. Some curious, some cautious. She clocked them without slowing. They knew who she was. They knew what she had done. She had cut the rot out of corporate offices all across the Midwest and left it bleeding at their feet. No apology, no warning.
The scent of burnt sugar drifted behind her.
Morgan didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Vee trailed a few steps back, dragging on a vape like it owed her money. She wore the mandatory orange jacket unzipped over a black vest that clung to lean muscle. Her hair, dead straight and brushing her shoulders, caught the sun in bronze streaks that should have looked tragic but didn’t.
She made it work the same way she made grease-stained coveralls look good—and none of it was for anyone but herself.
Up close, she had a face that stopped people mid-sentence. Heart-shaped, sharp eyes lined with black, like she could kill you with one look and enjoy it. She wore a red lipstick that should have melted under the July heat but stayed flawless, just like the rest of her. No frills. No apologies.
