The Night Rider Motorcycle Novels & Stories

The car, a Bugatti, was filled with his scent. How lucky I am to become a baby mama to this handsome god, I felt proud of myself and for once, I appreciated the night we shared. I stared at his face from the corner of my eyes. He wasn't smiling, he only kept a straight face. Always on a stern expression, always a straight face. His facial expressions and moods are very hard to understand, tell, and predict. As the engine revved back to life, so did my pussy. As the engine vibrated, so did my clit throbbing with blood.

As the car drifting event comes to a close, the focus shifts to the next thrilling spectacle - a high-energy bike race. Handsome boys, their faces hidden by helmets, rev up their powerful superbikes, their sleek machines gleaming under the moonlit sky. Among them stands a figure cloaked in mystery - a rider in a black balaclava, his aura of enigmatic allure capturing my attention. The race begins, the bikers tearing through the twisting track with speed and precision, their bikes weaving through the night like streaks of lightning. The balaclava-clad rider steers the course with unparalleled skill, his movements fluid and calculated as he gains ground on his competitors.

She turned and walked away. I let her go and almost immediately saw Cressida across the courtyard. She was standing alone near the fountain with Raven nowhere in sight. Her dark hair caught the pale morning light. She was staring at the frozen fountain like it held answers. I excused myself from Kade. Walked to the parking lot and unlocked my car. In the boot, wrapped in a tarp, was her Harley. I had repaired by a mechanic who knew not to ask questions and also restored it to it's usual beauty. The bike was breathtaking - A Falcon Thunderstrike, limited edition, custom paint job that shimmered between black and feel blue.

And then he veered toward something that made me pause. A motorcycle. Not one of those plastic, soulless speed machines—but a real one. Matte black. Low-slung. Growling with restrained power. It looked like it had eaten roads for breakfast and still hadn’t had enough. I slowed to a stop, lips curving into a smirk as the machine came into full view. Pure muscle and menace. A beast with two wheels and no apologies. Of course Ryden rode a motorcycle. It was too perfect. The tattoos, the rough edges, the way he’d let me break him open with my thighs and a whisper—he was built for this kind of cliché. The good kind. The kind that made you ache.

The opening was four feet wide, half-filled with wet leaves and freezing, stagnant water. The first motorcycle rounded the curve. The rider didn't brake. He saw our dead truck blocking the road, stood up on the foot pegs, and laid the bike down sideways. The heavy machine slid under the truck's chassis in a shower of yellow sparks, the rider rolling clear on the asphalt, his short rifle already coming up to his shoulder as he hit the ground. The bullets hit the top of the concrete pipe right above my head, spraying sharp stone chips into the back of my neck.

I asked once again, his tone implying curiosity. "By motorcycle. Wait a moment here, okay," he said with a faint smile, then hurried to take a fast step leaving the lobby area toward the parking lot. A few seconds later, the roar of an engine broke the night's silence. A black Honda CB300R motorcycle stopped smoothly right in front of me. There was a charm in seeing Reid sitting on that motorcycle seat, looking so stunning amidst the quiet streets. "Let's get on," he invited with a faint smile.

Then he swung his leg over the bike, twisting the throttle as he sped off into the night. The city blurred around him. Horns blared, tires screeched and someone yelled a curse. It was the typical night ride life. He raised a middle finger, grinned and cut through the streets like the ghost rider, like nothing could stop him. He didn’t stop till he got to the location she asked them to meet. Wilson pulled up, cutting the engine as he let the quiet settle around him. He placed his helmet on his bike and looked around. The blackness of the ocean stretched out before him, the dim light of the moon shimmered on the surface of the waters and the sound of the waves sent a refreshing calm through hi

Over the crest of the hill, headlights appear. Two. Then four. Then ten. Then twenty. A wall of light descends the ridge. The roar becomes deafening. It drowns out the whine of my Ducati. It drowns out the rain. The pack is here. I see the lead bike. It’s a massive black Harley. The rider is a giant in a shredded tactical vest. He rides with one hand on the bars and one hand holding a shotgun resting on his thigh. Drakon. He isn't alone.

He said and without as much as sparing me another glance he left. My fist clenched besides me as I watched his back my heart feeling like it was breaking into a thousand pieces with every step he took away from me. ____ An hour later, I was back at the spot where Jettison and I had been sitting earlier, my heart lodged painfully in my throat as I watched him stepped onto the track with a massive bike. Rodger said it was his legendary one—the bike he’d used back in his prime years of racing. It was black, lined with white along the sides, and it looked huge beneath him, heavily built compared to the Death Rider he used back in Blackmoore.

Axel replied, referring to the card in his hand. The man walked ahead of Axel and he followed, they passed different steps and met different men on their way. They finally got to a room and five men were seated around a table with different alcohols, games, and other different things on the table. They were having coffee too. “Black one with sugar please.” He said to none of them in particular. They all stared at with glares on their faces. Axel looked at their hands and he saw the tattoos. Just like the one Lily yelled out, a sun and a moon right under each other.