Best Motorcycle Books Novels & Stories

He swung his leg over and dismounted - is that what it was called getting off a steel horse like this? Misty had never really had an interest in motorcycles, but with this bike, and, more likely, Denver and his leather standing in front of it...that could change. "That doesn't look like any motorcycle I've ever seen. It's way more - " She searched for the right word, and almost said "more" again. " - classy looking." "That's probably because you're used to seeing nothing but Harleys and crotch rockets." Denver ran one big hand lovingly over the dark green tank. "This here is Roxanne. She's a 1981 BMW R100RT, one of the greatest of the airheads."

With her foot, she was busy drawing things on the paved ground. She soon heard the rumble of a motorcycle approaching her. When she looked up, she noticed Sebastian was riding it. He came to a halt where she was standing. He was riding a Ducati 998. “Wow.” "Do you think it's good?" She nodded as he handed her the helmet. "I'm amazed; this is the Ducati brand's newest model." “Wow. You're an expert in motorcycles. I'm blown away... "Come on, let's get this party started."

There are only two things in this fucked up world I give a damn about, motorcycles and women. ​I ride them both the same way with a heavy hand and zero mercy. I like easing into the stroke, feeling the machine warm up beneath me, then manhandling them around tight corners until the metal screams. I want them redlining, vibrating through my bones until they’re begging me to let off the gas. I don't do gentle. I do control. ​Sup, Boss.

They were a newer model from the past year with blacked out windows, and all three of them were pulled to the side of the road, just outside of the city limits. I figured they were probably just stopping for a break of some kind and decided to pay them no more attention. Pretty soon I arrived and parked close to the barn. I could see that the lady Heather had been there. Some of the guys were walking along with piles of brownies in their hands, munching away. Heading into the barn I found Chip, taking the motor off of the wrecked motorcycle. “How did ordering go at the store?” I asked him. “Everything went good, so it should be here right on time.”

I was only here to meet Ron and maybe Jemma, talk and go home again. 'Ok'. I passed him the money, grabbed my bag and got out. I had barely even closed the door before he sped off and disappeared around another corner. 'Fucking weird, man'. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walked into the lot and headed up the drive. I could already see the rows of Motorbikes lined up. Ok, well, Motorcycle club means Motorcycles I suppose. As I got closer, I could hear voices, laughing and the butterflies in my stomach started getting worse. I had to stop for a minute and take a few deep breaths.

Chapter Seven The parking lot was nearly empty, our footsteps echoing against concrete as I followed Adrien through the rain. My feet were bare now, the ruined heels abandoned somewhere on the terrace because I simply couldn't walk in them anymore. The cold pavement bit into my soles with each step, but it was nothing compared to the bone-deep chill that had settled into my body over the past three hours. He stopped beside the motorcycle—a Ducati, it was sleek, black and dangerous-looking. Everything about it screamed speed and power and recklessness and I loved it! He opened the storage compartment and pulled out a helmet, holding it out to me without a word.

What could be more appropriately descriptive of a storm this magnitude than Weightlifting 101, Swimming for Dummies, Complete Idiot’s Guide to Submerged Motorcycle Repair, Shirtless Tanning and Mudpack The-Easy-Way. And the list continues...

I don't know how I can get them to trust me. I stepped out of her house, just to get some fresh air until something shiny caught my attention. But once my eyes landed on the most amazing thing I had ever seen; it was more than just shiny, the beautiful beast that lay before me was a Ducati Diesel 1260. It's literally one of the best motorcycles ever, this is Dawn's. Whenever my uncle would come to the palace when I was young, he used to teach me and Malcom the basics since he had a motorcycle of his own.

“You’re walking into the Annual Meeting with wolves who smell blood. If you’re going to survive biker politics, you need more than sharp instincts.” “I can ride,” she said quickly. “You’ve seen me.” “I’ve seen you ride,” I corrected. “I haven’t seen you command.” Her brows furrowed. “Hmmm, there’s a difference?” “Obviously,” I replied sounding almost sarcastic. “In this vast world of ours, motorcycles aren’t transportation. They’re statements. The way you ride tells everyone exactly who you are, either; weak, reckless, or untouchable.” She crossed her arms. “And you think I look weak?”

It’s a corrugated tin shack, leaning precariously against a retaining wall. I rip the door open. Inside, sitting under a tarp, is a motorcycle. It’s not a chopper. It’s a sleek, matte-black sport bike. A Ducati. Fast. Agile. A Reaper's bike. I shove the documents inside my leather jacket—the one Drakon gave me back at the motel, which I miraculously still have—zipping it up to my chin. I jam the key into the ignition. It turns. The dashboard lights up. I hit the starter.