Forked

by Melanie Harlow

  Breathless, I hiked up the filmy skirt of my dress, under which I wore the skimpiest lace panties I owned. Without even bothering to remove them, Nick licked his fingers and reached between my legs, sliding them inside me.

  “Fuck,” I breathed, riding his hand as his thumb brushed over my clit through the lace. Yanking at his belt and then his fly, I freed his cock and wrapped a hand around its thick, hard shaft, let my thumb play over the head. He groaned as a silky drop oozed from the tip and I swirled it over his sensitive skin.

  Our mouths were open, close but not kissing, our breathing hot and labored.

  “Nick,” I panted. “I want it. Now.”

  “Yeah?” He fingered me deeper, before sliding his fingers out to rub hard, fast circles over my clit.

  “Oh, God. Yes. Please.” My legs were shaking.

  “Lift up your dress.”

  He moved my panties aside and thrust into me, pushing me hard against the tree. On the second thrust, my feet left the ground, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. His hands moved underneath my thighs, gripping hard and spreading me apart. The small of my back jammed against the ridges of the bark with every powerful shove of his cock inside me.

  “I love it,” I breathed, clutching at his neck. “I love the way you fuck me. You make me come so hard.”

  “Fuck yes,” he growled, going deeper. “I’ve wanted to get under that pretty dress all day.”

  I bit my lip, aroused beyond measure by his ferocious desire. I stifled my cries in his neck as he took me higher, my insides growing tighter and tighter around him. My entire lower body went numb for a moment, suspending me between pain and pleasure, between tension and relief, between a breath and a scream. Finally, his orgasm burst me wide open, and I gasped with every thrust of his cock inside my dripping, pulsing core.

  “Jesus,” I said a moment later. “I don’t know how I’m going to walk.”

  “Good.”

  I dropped my head back against the tree and looked at Nick’s face in the silvery dark. “Maybe you’ll have to carry me.”

  He kissed my lips. “Anywhere and everywhere. As long as you’ll let me.”

  “Hmm. How about forever?”

  He touched his forehead to mine. “Forever.”

  “Close your eyes.” Nick’s voice was soft, and his breath tickled my ear.

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to blindfold you.”

  “In my parents’ driveway? In a convertible?”

  “We’ll start with that. Maybe later I’ll do it somewhere else—if you behave.”

  I laughed. “I thought you were taking me out for ice cream.”

  “I’ll still buy you an ice cream cone if you want one. But first I want to give you a birthday present.”

  “Now?” We’d only been back from France for about ten days, and my birthday wasn’t for another month.

  “I know it’s early, but I saw this thing that I knew you had to have, and I just can’t wait to give it to you.”

  “No complaints here. I love surprises.” I clapped my hands. “What is it?”

  He reached into the back seat and handed me a small black bag that said Shinola. “Look inside,” he told me.

  I peeked inside the bag and pulled out a photograph of two Shinola bikes side by side, and a tiny box. I opened the box and took out a tiny little key. “What’s this?”

  “The key to the lock for your new bike.”

  “Really?” I grinned at him before studying the

  picture again. “How fun! And is that your bike next to mine?”

  “Yes. Want to go pick them up?”

  “Yes!” I glanced into the back seat. “But how are we going to get them home?”

  “Leave it to me.” He wrapped a soft scarf around my eyes and tied it at the back of my head. “Can you see?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.”

  He started the car and backed out of the driveway, and I imagined the stares he got driving around town with a blindfolded woman in the front seat of his ’54 Mercury. And where the hell was he taking me? Were our bikes at the Shinola store? Wasn’t that downtown somewhere? Why would he have to blindfold me for that?

  I tried to figure out where we were headed by the number and direction of turns we took, but pretty soon I realized he was taking so many turns, he was trying to get me lost on purpose.

  “What the hell?” I said, grabbing onto the dash. “You’re making me carsick here.”

  He laughed. “Sorry, but you’re too smart, cupcake. And this has to be a surprise. We’re almost there.”

  In another five minutes, he slowed to a stop and turned off the engine. “You asked how we’d get our new bikes home,” he said, “but they’re already home.” He untied the scarf and I pulled it off, anxious to see where in the world we’d ended up.

  My jaw dropped, and I sucked in my breath before clapping a hand over my mouth.

  We were in the driveway of the house on Iroquois. Every hair on my body stood on end.

  “Nick, what is this?” My eyes roved over all the details I loved about the home, finally landing on the SOLD sign on the front lawn. “This house is sold.”

  “I know. I bought it.”

  “What?” I stared at him, unable to wrap my brain around this. “You bought it? But Linda said that family that transferred bought it.”

  “I know. That’s what I told her to say.”

  I gasped and thumped him on the leg. “You didn’t!”

  “I did. Are you mad?”

  I looked at the house again. “I should be, shouldn’t I? I wanted to buy a house by myself.”

  “But that was when you were going to live there by yourself.” He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “Now we’re going to live here, together.”

  “Oh my God, Nick. I can’t believe it.” My heart was racing. “You said we should live in your apartment for a while, you big liar.” In fact, I’d already started packing. The sooner I got out of my parents’ house, the better. As expected, they’d been stunned at my engagement, but Nick hadn’t made me face them alone. Together we’d told them how we’d realized after seeing one another again that we were still in love and wanted to be married, having already spent far too long apart. I’m pretty sure they thought we were crazy and foolish, but I didn’t care. I’d never been more excited about my future.

  “Had to keep you guessing.” He kissed my head. “But that’s all over with. And don’t worry—I’ll still let you do as much work here as you want to. I’ll even show you how to work a hammer.”

  “Haha.” I tipped my head to his shoulder. “God, you’re an asshole. But I love you.”

  “I love you, too. And Coco, we’re putting your name on the title as soon as possible. It’s our place. I don’t care who paid for it.”

  “Really? You mean it?” I looked up at him.

  “Of course I do. It’s you and me, cupcake.”

  Happiness bubbled up in me. “Hey, maybe if we get the backyard in shape by next summer, we can get married here!”

  Nick dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “Good idea.”

  I slipped my arms around his waist, snuggling

  into the nook as we looked at the home where we’d build our future. This is where I’ll be every night for the rest of our lives.

  It would take a lot of work—both this house and this relationship—but I knew it would be worth it. Everything I needed to be happy was right here in front of me.

  THE END

  Thank you to my husband and children for allowing me the time and space to write. I love you.

  Thanks Tom Barnes for another beautiful cover—you’re seriously the best. Thank you Cait Greer for formatting and dealing with my mistakes and annoying last-minute emails—I couldn’t do this without you!

  Thank you to Danielle for being my best friend for the last 25 years—and also for being the Coco to my Mia. (Trapeze lessons? Seriously?)

  Thanks to the awesome ladies of The Wr
ahm Society and all offshoots, especially Gennifer Albin, Laura Barnes, Bethany Hagen, Tamara Mataya, & Kayti McGee. You inspire me every day, and because of you I never feel alone in this endeavor. Thanks for letting me sit with you.

  Thank you Tamara Mataya for editing and Angie Owens for proof reading. You save my characters from daying the wrong things, frowning in deep waters, and pacing back and froth. I am so grateful.

  A million, trillion thanks covered in chocolate cake batter to romance bloggers and readers who spread the word about books. I wish I could name you all because I adore you so much. I am so, so grateful. A special shout out to The Smut Book Club, The Rock Stars of Romance, Aestas Book Blog, Fan Girl Book Blog, True Story Book Blog, Schmexy Girls, and the hilarious ladies of the Dirty Laundry Review.

  To my incredibly talented mentors, who are so generous with their time and advice—Lauren Blakely,

  M. Pierce, and especially Laurelin Paige—I hope someday to do for another author all the things you’ve done for me. I’m honored to call you my friends.

  Finally, thanks to my readers, who have been so lovely to me in reviews, posts, and messages. I adore you.

  Keep reading for a free sample of Speak Easy, Melanie Harlow’s sexy historical series set in the Roaring ‘20s!

  Dear Readers,

  If you like the style of Frenched, Yanked, and Forked, and you’re looking for something a little different, give the Speak Easy series a try! It’s historical (set in the 1920s) but it’s sexy and fun and reads like a contemporary story. Read the summary on the next page, and keep going to check out the first three chapters FREE! (The characters might sound familiar…)

  The 1920s are roaring, and twenty-year-old Tiny O’Mara wants to be a part of it.

  By day she works for her father’s small-time bootlegging operation, by night she craves the sexy roll-your-stockings-down lifestyle of a flapper—until her father is kidnapped by a mobster in Detroit’s exploding organized crime scene, and it’s Tiny who has to come up with the ten-thousand-dollar ransom... in one week.

  Suddenly she’s thrust into an intoxicating underworld of greed, lust, lies, and betrayal.

  Enzo DiFiore is the son of the mobster holding her father hostage, but his sexy screen idol looks and dangerous charm leave her breathless. When the forbidden spark between them refuses to burn out, she tries to use their powerful chemistry to buy more time. And irritatingly handsome childhood pal Joey Lupo has the street smarts Tiny needs to make a quick ten grand, but he’s got his own agenda where gang rivalries are concerned.

  Deciding whom to trust isn’t easy in a world where everyone wants something—be it booze, money, power, or sex—and no one cares what it takes to get it.

  Friday, July 13th, 1923

  The woman approached me at the counter, keeping her eyes low. “A quart of maple syrup,” she said, her voice hushed.

  I didn’t recognize her. “What kind?”

  “Canadian.” Clutching her purse to her stomach, she peeked at me from beneath the brim of her hat.

  “What are you making?”

  “Griddlecakes.”

  I nodded. If she’d answered waffles, or even pancakes, I’d have directed her to the east wall of the store, where tin cans of actual maple syrup were stacked three high on a shelf. But since she knew the password, I named our price and took down the order and her address. She’d get her whisky in a day or so.

  Bootlegging was that simple for a small operation like ours. The customers were loyal, the neighborhood grocery store was a legitimate cover, and thanks to the narrow waterway separating Detroit from Canada and its distilleries, our whisky supply seemed endless. Timely payoffs assured us of little trouble from city officials, and the local cops were some of our best customers. So when the bell over Jefferson Market’s front door jangled again that afternoon, I greeted the customer with a smile. But as the well-dressed man removed his light gray fedora and walked toward me at the back of the store, the air took on a strange charge, and gooseflesh rippled across my skin.

  It was him. The sheik.

  He’d been in twice in the last week. Each time, he’d said practically nothing, bought one pack of Fatima cigarettes, and paid with a fifty-dollar bill. I thought of him as the sheik because he reminded me of a movie star: dark, silent, and handsome in that delighted-villain sort of way, as if he’d just tied a girl to the train tracks and now it was time for a cocktail and a smoke.

  “Good afternoon.” His voice was deep and smooth, just how I imagined a screen idol’s should be. “Are you Miss O’Mara?”

  I blinked. He knows my name. “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “Give this to your father.” He pulled an envelope from his coat and laid it on the counter, next to the cash register. When I reached for it, he placed his hand over mine, pinning it to the cool marble. A buzz swept up my arm as our eyes met. His were so dark they appeared black, and a small scar rested at the top of one cheekbone. “Tell him to answer by tonight.”

  It took me a moment to find my voice. “All right.”

  Replacing his hat on top of his slick dark hair, he walked out without looking back. The bell jangled once more, and I released the breath I’d been holding, leaning on the counter for support. I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Tiny?” My older sister Bridget poked her head in from the stockroom, her long brown hair coming loose from its knot at her nape. “Daddy’s ready for you to make deliveries.”

  Quickly I swiped the envelope into the front pocket of my middy blouse. “Should I go now?”

  “Just let me put the bread in the oven,” Bridget said, disappearing into the stockroom again. She and her children lived in the apartment over the store. At almost twenty-one, I was more than ready to move out of our father’s house and get my own apartment, but it would have to wait. There were two more daughters after me who needed tending, and with our mother gone and Bridget widowed with three young boys, I wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  While I waited, I fingered the envelope in my pocket. The sheik said Daddy had to answer by tonight, but what was the question? Was he a bootlegger too? He looked a little older than me, but still in his twenties, and wealthy, if his clothing was any indication. He wore exquisite three-piece suits. First black, then blue, and today, gray. I looked at the back of my hand, where he’d touched me, then brought it to my lips.

  “What are you doing?” Bridget’s voice startled me again, and she laughed.

  Cheeks burning, I tucked my hand into my pocket. “Nothing. Can I go?”

  She nodded. “I’ll bring the grocery sacks out to you in the alley.”

  I exited through the stock room into the wet heat of a Michigan summer afternoon. In the alley, I pulled the envelope from my pocket and looked at it. Jack O’Mara was written on its ivory face in black ink, the cursive letters small and lean. The seal was tight. No way to tell what its contents were, no clue as to who the sheik might be or whom he worked for.

  Not that I much cared about his occupation.

  If he comes in again, I’ll say hello first, I thought, recalling those dark eyes that smoldered like Valentino’s. “Hi, there,” I said, practicing. No, too girlish. I cleared my throat and tried again, imagining how a sultry screen vamp like Theda Bara would greet a man like the sheik. “Hello.” Yes, that was better. Deeper, more mature.

  Next, I tried to even out my walk so that I could slink into a room, cigarette holder in one hand, highball in the other. But slinking was a bit difficult for me because one of my legs is shorter than the other, not that either of them is what you’d call long. My mother was so small she had difficult births, and my hip broke as I was being born. It hadn’t healed right, resulting in a one-inch difference, and I have to concentrate if I don’t want to limp, especially if I’m tired. But if I smoothed out my gait, kept my weight back and my chin down, bent my knees a little…

  Damn. Slinking was harder than it looked.

  Giving up, I jogged the rest of the way down the alley
and pushed open the door to the garage. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw Daddy taking apart the back end of a Cadillac hearse.

  Officially, he was an auto repairman, but his real talent was rebuilding cars—creating hidden compartments, phony gas tanks, false floorboards. It was amazing how many bottles of booze could be stashed in the unseen lining of an automobile. Hearses were especially popular with bootleggers because they had wide back ends, but I stuck with my Model T. Those hearses were creepy.

  “I’m here!” I called over the banging of his hammer.

  The noise stopped and he straightened halfway, bracing his hands on the hearse’s frame and tilting his chin toward me over one shoulder. His profile revealed the crooked line of his nose, which had been broken several times. “It’s over there. Can you load it?” He jerked his head toward two large boxes labeled Royal Baking Powder sitting on the cement floor near the door.

  “Sure.”

  “That’s my girl. Fifteen per bottle, and don’t take less.”

  “I won’t. This came for you.” I moved closer to him and held out the envelope. “The man who brought it said you should answer by tonight.”

  He took it from me, barely glancing at it before shoving it into the front pocket of his work overalls. “To hell with that. I don’t answer to him or anybody else.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s nothing. Now go on, I’ll meet you at the boathouse at six sharp. I want to get the whole place cleared out, bring it all here.”

  I nodded. That could take a while. We had a lot of booze stashed in that boathouse, probably enough to—

  “What the hell do you want, a police escort?” He waved his hammer toward the door. “Get moving!”

  “OK, OK. Jeez,” I muttered, hurrying over to the boxes loaded with whisky bottles. Daddy had a quick temper, but he wasn’t usually so short with me. Either it was something about the letter, or he owed money to his bookie. His business ventures made enough to house, clothe, and feed us, but every extra dime fed his ravenous betting habit. Every man has his temptations, I supposed, slipping my fingers underneath a box. And every woman too. I could still hear the sheik’s low, velvety voice in my head. My stomach tightened as I imagined getting him out of that buttoned-up three-piece suit, removing that crisp white collar, slipping the crimson tie from around his neck. A sweat broke out on my back.