Mc Biker Romance Novels & Stories

2 weeks later: Robyn: Well these past few weeks have been the best of my life. All the things I heard about Cody were lies. He is a wonderful man and his mc is not as bad as I was told either. I go the clubhouse with him at night and the guys are great. Now I could do without the club sluts but hey it is part of the mc life. And after my little confrontation with Jenni they won't come near me. Hey it wasn't my fault the bitch tried to hit me. And when Cody tried to grab her I took care of her myself. Safe to say her face was not that pretty when I was done. They should know I can fight growing up with Jace as my brother but oh well they do now. Enough about the club bs let me tell you the g

“It’s none of your business.” I take a closer look at David, he looks different. The easy charm he usually carries is buried under the dark edge of his appearance. He’s dressed in a black leather jacket, the words Hell Raiders stitched across the back in bold white. The emblem — a skull wrapped in flames — gleams faintly in the light, worn but intimidating. His jeans are torn, his boots scuffed, and his hair a little messy. My stomach twists. Hell Raiders MC is one of the most notorious biker gangs, and the charming David is a member— probably one of the leaders.

I can’t wait to paint that pretty ass of hers red for this disrespect. He secured the scarf and swung his leg over his bike; the bright red Honda Fireblade gleamed as the early morning sun touched it, while Justin gave him a wide grin. ‘It was a mighty fine little ass to, pert and firm, perfect for spanking.’ With his mind full of the image of her naked body, he swung his leg over his more conservative jet black Kawasaki Ninja. Both bikes purred rather than roared into action, belying their powerful engines as the two men manoevred them gingerly onto the highway heading for their MC.

Especially the ones that were based in places like this. MC clubs with hot tattooed bikers who loved their women and weren't pigs. I thought it was a myth, until Gabriel and his friends showed up. Until then the only men around this club were men like Sam and Billy. Beer gutted with scraggly beards and yellow stained teeth.

"I am choosing to end it." He stared at me for a long moment. Then pulled me into his arms. "You are going to give me a heart attack one of these days." "Probably. But at least it will be interesting." We left Chicago at dawn. All twenty bikers accounted for. Some wounded, none dead. Diane's operations destroyed. Message sent. On the drive back to Nevada, I dozed against Albert's shoulder, exhausted. "Eva," he said quietly. "You know she is not going to honor that deal, right? She will come back."

“I never thought I would know. I never believed that I’d find love, and sure as hell not with an MC guy. In my experience with them, they were all womanizing bastards and cheating liars, and the best place for a motorcycle man was light years away from me.” “But Scars was different?”

Cracker’s POV “Can I buy you a drink?” I glanced up at the biker standing next to me. He was impressive looking and, judging from his vest, also an MC. But I didn’t recognize the name. He was probably an enforcer like Steel, but not nearly as muscular, or as handsome, or as--- I mentally groaned.

Nothing mattered anymore—not since they'd taken everything from her. Six weeks. Six weeks since Michael’s mutilated body had been pulled from the river, weighted down with chains, his fingers cut off and his tongue removed—the Diamondbacks' signature for dealing with traitors. Six weeks of police giving her the runaround, of leads going nowhere, of a system that didn't care about one dead biker. But Raven had spent those weeks learning, watching, preparing. She'd studied the motorcycle clubs, their territories, their wars. She knew exactly what she was walking into.

I just moved. Jeans, tight black tank, no bra, hair scrangled into a tangy mass. I slipped out of the house, barefooted down the steps of the servants past the snoring sentinel of the night and into the warm night. Under the cypress-trees a matte-black Ducati lay as a hunter. Mantovani supported himself on it, holding his helmet, and his eyes were sparkling. He didn't speak. Gave me the spare helmet and a jacket belonging to him that smelled like him. I pulled it on. It swallowed me.