Marco X Jean Novels & Stories

The little pervert was into it. "I... that's kind of hot, actually," Jax admitted. Marcus pushed off the door. Walked toward Jax slow, deliberate. "Hot," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "Yeah. It is." He stopped inches from Jax. Reached out and traced a finger down Jax's chest, over his shirt. Jax shivered. "Take your clothes off," Marcus said. Not a question. An order. Jax fumbled with his shirt. Got it over his head. His body was lean—no chest hair, small nipples, a flat stomach. He unbuckled his belt with shaking fingers. Jeans dropped. Boxers followed.

The steady hum of the jet's engine filled the luxurious cabin. Seated in the opulent, cream-leather chair, Marco Donato's fingers moved swiftly across the keys of his laptop. His eyes—dark grey—were locked on the screen, his expression sharp and focused. In his mid-twenties, Marco's entire presence radiated dominance. His tall, muscular physique filled the seat with an effortless grace, his black hair styled just enough to maintain a hint of messiness, giving him a charming look.

I replied as I stepped into the dressing room. Not gonna lie, the first pair of pants I tried on, I am pretty sure I tasted the back of my balls. “Marco, can you bring me a pair of pants that isn’t going to ruin the chances of there being another heir please?” Marco chuckled as he brought in another pair of black dress pants and they were much better. I tried several suit jackets before settling on a steampunk, black brocade, jacket coat. I quickly changed back into my jeans and t-shirt and took the jacket and slacks to the counter to pay for them. “Thanks for your help, Marco. Have a good day,” I said while exiting the store.

The girl who sat beside her chipped in. I took another look at the jean I was wearing and touched the fabric. It was indeed what they said it was, Marcus had brought all the clothes in the closet and I paid little or no attention to any of them. I hurriedly took out my phone and searched for the price of the Jean. "What!!!”. I exclaimed in shock at the price , I dropped the phone In my hand from the shock. "Marcus was really good at throwing money around, got me contemplating if he had anything to do with the money he had.

He even had the courage to wink at me. "Excuse me?!" I screeched and moved away, disgusted. "Don't worry, babe. It has tinted windows," he smirked, like telling me that detail would miraculously change my mind. If he was trying to break the ice or just straightforwardly proposition me, I didn't have a clue. "Yeah, I don't see that ever happening. Sorry," I apologized without emotion. "As they say, never say never," he winked at me. And, as if right on cue, Marco walked into the room looking deliciously hot as he rocked a maroon shirt that hugged his torso and showed off the ink on his arms with an ash jean.

“Girl, I knew he was too damn fine to be safe. But why didn’t you stop when you realized the files were... you know…illegal?” I shrugged. “Couldn’t back down, Daya. You know I hate quitting.” She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d stick. “That stubbornness is gonna get you killed one day.” She leaned closer. “So you think Marco’s, like, from the… Maroon fam—” “Marano,” I corrected automatically. “Not Maroon. And yeah, obviously. Why else would he announce his last name like that? But I don’t get it—I just helped Xavier. It’s not like I’m walking around with the file in my pocket.”

"Feel how hard you've made me, baby girl." Liana gasps as she feels the hot, hard length of Marco's cock beneath the denim. "Fuck," she breathes. "You're... you're so big." Marco grins, reaching down to pop the button on his jeans. "And you're going to take every inch of it," he promises, shoving his pants down his legs. His cock springs free, long and thick and flushed with need. Liana licks her lips as she takes in the sight of it, huge and throbbing and leaking pre cum.

He stood, his movements fluid and predatory, and crossed the room to offer a hand. "Hello. I am Marco," he said, his deep, melodic accent hinting at his Mediterranean pack origins. His icy blue eyes held a sharp, inquisitive glint. Standing well over six feet with a powerful, corded build and a razor-sharp jawline, he was the personification of a lunar fantasy.

The cold liquid soaked through the fabric, and I looked down at the mess, my initial annoyance quickly giving way to confusion. When I glanced up, my irritation surged. Marco. He stood there, dressed casually in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans, but there was nothing casual about his demeanor. His smug expression was perfectly matched to his aura: self-assured and untouchable. He looked like someone who had just won a game only he was playing. Once again I got the feeling that he knew me better than I knew him. I had only met him once and even acknowledging that moment as a “meeting” was laughable. He had just walked past me, though I knew he had glanced at Amanda and me.

"This time, it's you, Cillian." Alessandro shook his head with a bored expression. "And you call me volatile." He pointed. Fucking great. For once, I didn't sit quietly. For once, I reacted. Suddenly, I took Alessandro's place in fucking things up. It's fucking hilarious. "Wait. We all fought. Then how is your shirt not creased or stained? Not even a bit?" Marco exclaimed. "Hey, it's Brioni," I stated the obvious. "I am not getting this stained."