Marceline No Smoking Shirt Novels & Stories

What now? Couldn’t I get one moment of peace to myself? But the irritation disappeared the second I saw who it was. Marceline swept through the door dressed to perfection, not even a single wrinkle in her outfit. Her hair was pinned into that signature matronly updo she always wore when she wanted to look dignified. Her makeup was flawless, and highlighted her eyes in a way that made her look younger than she was. A sharp angry pain flared in my chest like bile. God. Was I really this far gone? Was I really feeling jealous of Marceline, that old hag? If I could envy her, then what was next? Florence and her dull plain face?

His voice was firm, though his mind was clouded with questions. La Rouge pulsed with red neon lights. Music throbbed, laughter and dancing filled the air. Adrian walked in with steady steps, his tall figure standing out in the crowd. His eyes instantly landed on Marceline, seated elegantly in the VIP lounge, clad in a shimmering black gown with a glass of wine in hand. “Adrian.” Marceline offered a faint smile, as if there were no hostility between them. “At last, you came.” “What exactly is your purpose, calling me to a place like this?” Adrian sat across from her, his gaze icy.

Vexana Jones made sure everyone noticed the luxury watch on her wrist. Cassandra Carter talked about her wealthy husband, who doted on her. Rebecca Jenkins sat there in black-rimmed glasses with the bookish air of a math teacher. They weren't just showing off. They also kept finding ways to get my number. After all, no one expected that the girl who used to be nothing, the girl with that blunt bob haircut back then, would show up driving a Rolls-Royce.

I adjusted my cuffs, stepping into the sun. Inside, Marcello lounged like a damn sultan—shirt half open, a glass of scotch in hand. Two women clung to his side, both of them dressed in barely-there fabric, giggling like they were in some cliché movie scene. Around him, his guards stood stiff, armed to the teeth, eyes blank but alert. Marcello spotted me and grinned like the devil himself. “Look who we have here. The great Kingpin,” he drawled, raising his glass.

he asks, still not believing his ears. “Very.” “Marcella, I….” “You can take whatever you want,” I cut in, crossing my arms with a playful tilt of my head. “Anything in this mall. I’m paying.” That does it. He freezes completely. I swear he even stops breathing. I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You’re so dramatic.” Before he can argue again, I turn and start scanning through the clothes. Then I find it. A crisp, fitted charcoal-gray shirt…. slightly textured, with a sharp collar and subtle silver buttons. Clean. Elegant. Powerful.

Marcel and his men are standing at the entrance, all dressed in black tuxedos. Marcel is dressed in a wine-colored tuxedo. His eyes landed on me. I sipped my drink. He smirked. "Motherfucker." I heard Imani mutter. I scoffed slightly, taking another sip. Next, Marcel turned to someone behind him. "I wonder which of his baby mamas he brought today," Imani said. He brought up a white girl dressed in a........ I froze, furrowing my brows The fuck? Shawty?

“I’ll change. Just—stop acting like this.” Marcel didn’t smile. He didn’t soften or give me that smug look of victory I expected. He only watched her for a long second, eyes dark and unreadable, like he was deciding whether her answer was enough or merely acceptable. “Good,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the space between us. “Where’s your other shirt?” The question landed with a dull thud against my ribs. I blinked, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “I don’t have one.”

"Central to Six-Three Corporal, Medics are on scene and requesting status." "Central, you can send them in. Scene’s secured." Maxine hurried the girls into their bedroom before the medics got through the door. Marcello walked to the bathroom and checked on the wife. She sat on the floor, her back against the tub, and faced the doorway. She wore a loose black tank top with no bra. Torn, it fell from her right shoulder. We could see her nipple. The woman's legs spread open, and she was barefoot. Her unzipped short shorts were loose and exposed her crotch.

It almost felt like I was back in the other mansion. Marcel was standing by one of the couches and he was fully dressed like he was heading out. I don't know why he loves putting on black every time as right now he is dressed in a black suit with a dark shade of blue undershirt. But why then did I dream of him wearing a white shirt? That doesn't matter Marcel didn't pay any attention to me when I got in but I guess it's because he was actually on a call and from what I could eavesdrop from their conversation I could tell he was talking to someone back at the mansion. My best guess?

It wasn't the sight of the grilled steaks and sauce that had her swallowing. No. It wasn't. Not that she hadn't found it yummy but something more yummier had her swallowing hard. Her breathing rose to another crescendo with every delicate octave of the orchestra. Shannon walked towards the freezer, pulling out a bottle of chilled water. "Hey," Shannon spoke, acknowledging the male who hadn't seemed to notice them come in. He had been too engrossed in whatever he was doing. Marcel had black suit pants on, he was completely shirtless. He was lean but pads of rock hard muscles defined his chest and arms. Everything was perfectly contoured like a pair of skillful hands had crafted them, his shou