Backride

When hedge fund mogul Marcus Hale serves his wife Valentina with divorce papers, he believes he's trading her in for a shinier upgrade. What he doesn't know: the devoted woman he's discarding—the one who overlooked his coldness, his absences, his wandering eye—is the sole heir to the Reyes family's sprawling motorcycle empire, the most powerful MC dynasty on the East Coast. For seven years, Valentina buried her roots, reinventing herself as the perfect society wife while her real world waited back in Blackridge. Now, with her grandfather's health failing and the Reyes empire leaderless, she's forced to return home—straight into the orbit of Duke Callahan, the club VP who built himself from nothing after she left, and who never stopped waiting for her to find her way back. *Some men trade gold for glitter and call it an upgrade. Some women have to lose a husband to remember who they were born to be. In Blackridge, the most dangerous roads don't run on asphalt—they run straight through the heart.*

BLURB This collection drags you into dark, addictive fantasies where innocent young women discover the thrill of straddling power, control, and raw obsession. Every story drips with massive age gaps, possessive older men who demand total submission, and desperate girls who learn they were born to ride their Daddy until they break. Expect intense breeding obsession, creamy creampies that overflow, risky public rides, dominant dirty talk, and “good girls” who can’t stop bouncing on the one man they should fear. No slow vanilla bullshit just soaked thighs and young fertile bodies claimed hard in every forbidden position. These are full filthy multi chapter rides: shy college girls learning to ride reverse cowgirl in luxury cars, curious step nieces sneaking onto Daddy’s lap during family trips, spoiled brats broken on ranch saddles, and innocent runaways turned into eager little riders in penthouse suites. They all end up addicted, begging “Ride me more, Daddy……fill me deeper” while their bellies swell with the consequences. Open only if you want to get wet

I had been diagnosed with a structural abnormality. The doctor had told me my condition was extremely rare, the kind that had no cure. It was not exactly dangerous. I was just… different from other men in that regard. More intense. Far beyond normal. It had been a constant problem. Every time I brought a woman home, things fell apart the moment clothes started coming off. One look at me, and they panicked and ran like they had seen something they could not handle. My good buddy Gavin Cobb knew how long I had been going without, and he finally decided to help. He told me about a cycling club and suggested I check it out. At first, I did not take it seriously. Riding bikes? What was supposed to be exciting about that? Then he said, "You're underestimating it. The club was full of women. You'd ride up into the mountains at night, and once it was dark, no one could see anything. That was your opportunity. Make them feel good, and they wouldn't push you away. After that, your life would be easy." The idea got to me immediately. I did not think twice. I agreed on the spot.

"Ms. Smith, a complaint has been filed with HR. You have been accused of misusing your personal vehicle for unauthorized commercial activity." The administrative manager dropped a printed copy of the so-called joint complaint onto the desk, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. The company had decided to issue me a fine, placed a formal warning on my record, and revoked my performance bonus for this quarter. I stared at the handwriting on the complaint, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. I recognized it instantly. It was Selena Rogers. The same coworker who had been hitching rides with me to and from work every day for the past three years. It was all because of last night's storm. She had insisted I take a long detour to drive her to the mall so she could pick up her boyfriend, and I had said no. Then, in the break room, Selena's voice carried loud and clear. "Jennifer, I didn't have a choice. "We have to keep work and personal matters separate. The transportation stipend from the company isn't for you to make extra money." Around us, coworkers glanced over, whispering and pointing, as if they had completely forgotten how eager they once were to ask for a ride home. I took a slow breath. "Fine. I accept the company's decision." Then I pulled out my phone and made a call. "Mr. Wallace, I won't be renewing the lease on those two vans. "Yes. The ones that have been picking up and dropping off the admin and sales teams every day, free of charge." For three years, I had been the easygoing one, paying out of my own pocket every month to lease those vehicles so my coworkers could treat it as a perk. If that was now considered unauthorized business activity, then from this day on, everyone could figure out their own way to get to work.

My dad is the youngest ace pilot in the country. He's equipped with extremely stellar piloting skills. But on the day my mom suffers from a sudden heart attack and desperately needs to transfer hospitals, he refuses to fly her out with the excuse that the weather is terrible. Later on, someone records Dad flying a private jet just to scatter flower petals from a high altitude on a sunny day in order to celebrate the birthday of another woman's daughter. Meanwhile, my mom ends up dying on the stretcher while waiting to be saved. He didn't even show up, right up until the burial. For the next 20 years, my uncle has to take on cab orders every night just to put me through flight school. The day I become the youngest chief examiner of the Federal Aviation Administration, an airline delivers to me the file of a piloting prodigy for a captain upgrade assessment. The CEO of the airline is present as the guarantor of said pilot candidate. He puts himself in a very humble position when he addresses me. "Mr. Lowe, this young woman is extremely talented. If you drop your signature now, she will become the youngest pilot ever." I flip through the candidate's piloting resume. When my eyes fall on the list of her family members and her emergency contact, I'm stunned for a moment. Then, I stare at the young woman's photo for a very long time. Finally, I close the file and state softly, "Sorry. I won't approve her evaluation."

"Dude, let me see whose is bigger. Yours or my boyfriend's." On a truck along the Sicherian-Timbre Highway, a couple hitched a ride from me. The lady, Jean Shelley, was dressed provocatively. I couldn't help getting aroused, pitching a tent. Unexpectedly, Jean was very open-minded. She actually wanted to use her hand to measure how big I was. What made my blood race even more was that her boyfriend, Ray Brook, wanted her to use her body to pay for the ride.