Marcus Law Cock Novels & Stories

Above being the cover story of Rolling Stone like some kind of rock star of telecommunications. He was nothing but a big jerk.

she looks at me not saying any the waiter comes taking our drink order ,I order whiskey she orders cranberry juice. "I understand I might have come on harder on you Mr Parker the last thing I want is to ruin your marriage and my relationship with your daughter as you said it's never going to happen again" for some reason that doesn't sit right with me her not wanting me again ,her not touching me fuck what is wrong with me.

“Nnnnmm… Coach… you’re so deep… you’re ruining me… oh shit… right there!” Coach spanked his ass hard. “Louder. Tell me whose cock you need.” “Yours! I need your cock… fuck me harder… please!” The sound of the door opening behind them made both of them freeze. Marcus stood in the doorway, eyes wide, holding an extra key card. He had come to borrow something from Coach. “What the… fuck?” Marcus whispered, staring at the scene in front of him. Ryan was bent over the desk, shorts around his ankles, moaning like a whore with Coach’s thick cock buried balls-deep in his ass. Ryan’s own cock was rock hard and dripping onto the desk.

"You let me sign that contract? You let me go to his bed knowing why he wanted me?" "I was scared!" Marcus cried. "He had the photos, Iza! He had the forensic reports! He told me if I didn't convince you to sign, he’d send me to a prison where I wouldn't last a week. I’m a coward, honey. I’ve always been a coward."

For a couple reasons. Teri Munro. Marcus raised his glass in silent salute remembering the pretty brunette swimming in his suit jacket in the police interrogation room, the smooth sweet purr of her voice as she’d answered his questions, the way her thin pajamas had clung to each sweet line and provocative curve of her slim figure. He took another sip, relishing the memory. Or I suppose it’ll be Teri Erikson soon. Marcus had already seen and dismissed the flagged jewelry store authorization when it crossed the museum director’s credit card billing—or was he an archaeologist? Anthropologist?

At the moment, it didn’t feel like we had any hope. But something about her statement made me shift uneasily. Marcus had always had a lawyer ever since he was a teenager. Carlos used to tell me stories of how much trouble he would get into during his college days with Ethan, and how they always had a lawyer on speed-dial. It would make sense that he had probably spoken to his lawyer before he manipulated me into signing those papers. And it wasn’t just that. It was the confidence with which he handled this case, and the arrogance he displayed whenever he was talking about it that made me believe something was definitely off.

"Marcus talks about you all the time. About how you're the strongest client he's ever had. How you took the worst situation and turned it into power. He's so proud of you." "He is?" "He is. Says you remind him why he became a lawyer. To help people who actually deserve help." I find Marcus later, hug him tight. "Thank you. For everything. For fighting for me. For believing in me. For being part of my team." "You made it easy," he says. "You did the work. I just filed the paperwork." "You did way more than that." Around midnight, there's a knock on the wall between our spaces. Then another. Then a pattern. Morse code, maybe.

The lawyer arrived within an hour. Marcus Chen. Mid-forties. Expensive suit. Sharp eyes that missed nothing. He sat across from Penking and Amelia in the living room. Listened without interrupting as Penking explained the situation. When Penking finished, Marcus set down his pen. “Let me make sure I understand,” he said. “You want to confess to crimes you may or may not have committed to appease a woman who’s blackmailing you with your partner’s pregnancy.”

The confusion must show on my face because he continues, his thumbs stroking across my cheekbones like he’s trying to physically hold me together. “Marcus’s law firm represents Ashford Pharmaceuticals. He met Scarlett two years ago during contract negotiations. When she started researching me six months ago, looking for vulnerabilities, she mentioned your name in passing—the wedding planner I’d seen with at various events before we even officially met.” My stomach drops. “And Marcus recognized my name.”

Eight minutes, thirty seconds. Dominic doesn’t touch it. He just watches me. “Why marketing?” he asks. It’s the same question he asked in the elevator, but now there’s no elevator to escape to. “Because people lie,” I say before I can sanitize it. “But their data doesn’t. And I’m good at spotting the difference.” That earns me the second flicker. “Marcus.” The door opens like he was waiting for his name. Marcus is tall, Black, mid-30s, in a suit that costs more than my rent. His eyes are cop eyes. He’s been in the room for 0.2 seconds and already decided I’m a problem.