4P ยัยเนิร์ดโดนนักบาสรุมซ้อมอย่างหนัก! PWP

“What’re you up to?”

My thumbs flew across the screen. I hit send.

I stared at the chat, waiting for the man I knew only as "Rex" to reply.

This had been my ritual for the past three months.

I’d added him on a whim. We hit it off instantly, falling hard and fast until things got intense.

My phone vibrated.

It was a picture, a side shot of his computer desk. A few files were scattered next to the keyboard.

“Working. And waiting for a text from my sweetheart.”

A smile crept onto my face.

This man knew exactly how to make me blush with just a few words.

Maybe it was time to take this offline, to finally meet in person.

But as I was about to type my reply, my fingers froze.

Bottom right of the photo, on the corner of a folder, was a sliver of a metal pin. A falcon with its wings spread.

The Falcone family crest. The same mafia that owned the company I worked for.

My online boyfriend was one of them.

I stared at the screen for a full ten minutes, my mind blank.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

"Babe, what do you actually do?"

"Are you... with the Falcones?"

I typed the words, then deleted them. Over and over.

I didn't know what to say. If I asked, he’d ask right back. He’d want to know where I was. He'd find out I worked for a Falcone company.

He would come looking for me.

And then what? What the hell would I do then?

When I didn’t reply right away, Rex’s texts started coming in, one after another.

“Baby, you there?”

“Busy? Send me a pic. Like you do. Your hand… or anything.”

“Dreamt of you again last night. You were all over me, begging for it.”

His words were getting dirtier, bolder.

But this time, my cheeks weren't just hot with a blush—they were burning with a cold dread.

For three months, I thought I was talking to some normal businessman. A guy who was exciting and new, but safe.

I might work for the mob, but I never, ever wanted to be with a mobster.

That was a death wish.

And to think I’d been trading my deepest fantasies and whispering my secrets to a made man…

My phone buzzed again—a voice call.

I couldn’t answer. He’d hear the panic in my voice. I fumbled with the screen, declining the call.

Then I quickly typed out a lie: “In a meeting, honey. Talk later.”

He seemed to buy it. A moment later, he replied, “Waiting for you.”

I closed the chat and took a deep, shaky breath.

I needed to calm down. Think.

First: I had to figure out who he was. Was he some low-level muscle or a high-up manager?

Second: What was I going to do? Risk it and keep this going, or run for the hills?

I opened our chat history, scrolling through our old messages, searching for clues.

We’d both been careful about privacy, never sharing details about our work or personal lives.

But one thing stood out. He’d once sent me an ab pic from a gym mirror.

His stomach was perfectly defined, and just below his left ribs, there was a black tattoo.

It looked like some ancient, cryptic symbol, all sharp lines and mystery.

It was the only identifying feature I had.

The problem was, I couldn’t exactly start ripping open shirts at headquarters to play a game of find-the-tattoo.