Rider Strong Shirtless Novels & Stories

He was fucking shirtless. That he was shirtless wasn't only the problem, but also his skin. His skin was slick with a faint sheen of sweat, like he just finished a workout. His muscles looked enhanced. His chest was dusted with just enough dark hair to make her pulse skip. And lower...his abs were a roadmap of ridges leading to the waistband of a pair of low-slung athletic shorts. She could tell he wasn't wearing any underwear, because the fabric did nothing to hide the heavy outline straining against it.

I repeated, but quite faintly. He ignored my plea. In no time, Chris removed his T-shirt and grabbed another black one lying on the love-sofa. The black shirt which he buttoned in such a way as to show his pectoral muscles slightly. My world darkened in one shot. Like an eclipse during the day. Then, to my surprise, he picked and held the riding crop in his right hand. “Kneel!”

Strong and fast and completely uninjured. Cheers erupted across the field. The winner was lifted from his bike, celebrated, claimed as strong and worthy. But my attention had already moved to the riders still struggling to finish. One in particular caught my eye, a man whose bike had taken too much damage, who was limping across the finish line long after everyone else. He was bleeding, shaking, clearly human. Two pack members grabbed him roughly, dragging him from his bike. His protests turned to screams as they hauled him toward Zeus’s platform.

Oh my god. He was at the far end of the gym, his back to me, standing in front of a weight rack. And he was absolutely, devastatingly shirtless—nothing but a pair of athletic shorts sitting low on his hips, showing off the sharp V of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. I'd known he was fit. I'd seen hints of it through his tailored shirts, in the way he moved, in the strength of his forearms. But this. This was something else entirely.

There he was. Calvin was in the driveway beside the garage, shirtless, working on his powerful black motorcycle under the outdoor lights. The bike was wet and soapy as he washed it, his strong arms flexing with every stroke of the sponge. Water and suds ran down his toned chest and abs, tracing every ridge of muscle. His shorts hung low on his hips, showing the deep V-lines that disappeared beneath the waistband. My breath caught in my damn throat. He looked like a fucking snack.

“Sit down. Regain your strength.” I turned, startled. And froze. Ronan was shirtless. He had shrugged off his soaked shirt and wrung it once before draping it over a jagged rock The flickering shadows of the cave fire danced over his sun-kissed skin and defined abs, each muscle carved like stone. The sight made my breath catch in my throat. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

I straightened up and shut the fridge a little too hard, whipping my head towards the man who casually stood behind me. “You–” I was going to scold him for startling me again, but my words were cut short the moment I set my eyes on him. Anderson was shirtless, wearing only black sweatpants with a small towel hanging around his neck. His hair was slightly tousled, and his chest rose and fell rapidly as if to catch his breath, he'd probably just finished exercising. Beads of sweat trickled down his tanned skin, highlighting his perfectly toned abs and disappearing down the V line of his torso.

A genuine smile grazed hee chest for the first time in 30 minutes through the ride home. He took her purse from her and led her into the spacious ceiling to floor living room, where she met Drystan shirtless. . “Welcome back, Sunshine.”Drystan deep baritone was both taunting and inviting but what was more inviting was….. Her breath stilled, and her eyes ran around his body. He stood there—shirtless, his sculptured torso, a masterpiece of power and restraint. The black sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. teasing at the lethal strength beneath. And in his hands? A pair of weapons, gleaming under the light like the forbidden promise.

“I want you bare.” Ryk didn’t need telling twice. He shed his shirt and jeans in a heartbeat, standing before Zane in nothing but his tight black briefs, his cock straining against the fabric. Zane’s eyes raked over him, hungry, lingering on the beads of sweat trailing down Ryk’s chiseled pecs and abs. “Fuck, you’re a goddamn sight,” Zane murmured, licking his lips.

He had just one tattoo drawing, on his heart area, like a comic parody of — is that Cat Woman? And more than that, he emitted a darker aura than the other two. For the love of God, are those abs even real? They were all so fucking ripped, like those men who give hardcore BDSM fucks in those p**n videos I watch with Gilda. Oh gosh! Was this the sex suite? The one sitting seemed ripped, as his shirt fit him like a glove, stretching out his muscles, and also the one standing with a phone, he was fucking ripped. But the one dressed in black and had a shirt on his shoulder? He was fucking shredded. A buff fellow, my God!