I left my business card in his pocket after a red-eye affair at 30,000 feet.

My name is Nadia Khalil. Thirty. Corporate lawyer. I fly first-class because I can afford it, and because the bathrooms are bigger.

The flight was Dubai to JFK. Ten hours. Red-eye. Most passengers were already asleep under duvets when I noticed him.

Row 2A. Dark suit. Early forties. Mediterranean skin. Sharp jaw. He’d been watching me since boarding—subtle, but not subtle enough.

I waited until the cabin lights dimmed. Then I stood, walked past his seat, brushed his knee “accidentally” with my hip. He looked up. I held his gaze. Walked to the lavatory.

Thirty seconds later, the door clicked open behind me.

He didn’t speak. Just locked the door.

Space was tight. Sink. Mirror. Tiny counter. We didn’t waste time.

He kissed me like we were already late. Hands under my blouse, unhooking my bra. I unzipped him, stroked him through his boxers until he was thick and leaking.

I turned. Bent over the sink. Braced my hands on the counter. Watched us in the mirror—his reflection behind me, eyes black with lust.

He pushed my skirt up, pulled my thong aside, thrust in hard. I gasped. The plane hit turbulence—perfect timing. Every jolt drove him deeper.

He fucked me fast. Rough. One hand in my hair, pulling my head back so I could see myself—mouth open, cheeks flushed, breasts bouncing with each thrust.

I came first—quiet, intense, thighs trembling. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling inside me while the seatbelt sign dinged overhead.

We stayed like that for a moment. Breathing hard. Then he pulled out, fixed his pants, kissed the back of my neck.

I straightened my clothes. Checked my lipstick. Opened the door.

He went back to his seat first. I waited two minutes, then returned to mine.

The rest of the flight we didn’t speak. Didn’t look at each other.

When we landed, I walked past him in the aisle. Slipped my business card into his pocket.

He never called.

Some connections are only meant to last one flight.