Chapter 11
The compound had gone quiet.
Cookout remnants cleaned and stored, children tucked into beds, adults retreating to their own spaces with the satisfied exhaustion of a day well spent. Ivy carried Mae back to their rooms, her daughter's sleeping weight familiar and precious against her shoulder.
Splinter walked beside her.
He'd done this every night since they arrived—escorted her to her door, said goodnight, disappeared into whatever space prospects claimed for themselves. A ritual that felt protective and frustrating in equal measure, the heat between them banked but never extinguished.
Tonight felt different.
The air carried something electric, charged by firelight confessions and hands that had stayed linked until Mae stirred awake. Ivy was acutely aware of him beside her—his warmth, his scent, the way he moved through space like he was always ready for whatever came next.
She wanted to be what came next.
The thought sent heat pooling low in her belly.
Mae barely stirred when Ivy laid her in bed, pulling the covers up and pressing a kiss to her forehead. The wooden animals Splinter had carved sat on the nightstand in a careful row, guarding her dreams.
"She'll sleep through," Ivy murmured, stepping back into the hallway.
Splinter stood where he always stood—just outside her door, close enough to touch if she reached for him, far enough to leave if she didn't. His eyes tracked her face, reading whatever was written there.
"You should get some rest too."
"I'm not tired."
Something shifted in his expression. A flicker of heat, quickly controlled.
"Ivy—"
"Come inside."
The words hung between them.
Splinter went still. She watched him process the invitation—saw the want flash across his face before caution clamped down, the careful control he kept around her cracking at the edges.
"You sure?"
"I've been sure for days." She stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.
"I've been sure since you held my hand by the fire and told me you'd never had family.
I've been sure since you carved my daughter a zoo because you couldn't keep a promise about one horse.
" Her hand found his chest, palm flat against leather and the steady thunder of his heartbeat.
"I'm sure, Splinter. The question is whether you are. "
His hand came up to cover hers. She felt the tremor in his fingers—this man who'd killed to protect her, who'd barricaded a cabin and fought off eight armed men without flinching, trembling because she'd touched him.
"I've been sure since the first time I saw you." His voice was rough, scraped raw. "Standing behind that counter with shadows under your eyes and a kid watching the door like a soldier. I looked at you and something clicked. Something I didn't know was missing until it was there."
"Then stop standing in the hallway."
She pulled him inside.
The door closed behind them, and the world narrowed to this room, this moment, this man.
Ivy reached for the zipper of his cut, but his hands caught hers, stilling them.
"Wait." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Before this goes further—there's something you should know."
"What?"
"My name." He held her gaze, and the vulnerability there made her breath catch. "My real name. The brothers call me Splinter because of the wood, because that's who I am to them. But if we're doing this—if you're letting me in—then you should have the part of me I don't give anyone else."
Ivy's heart stuttered. "You don't have to—"
"Arlo." The word came out like a confession. "My name is Arlo Halcomb. My grandfather gave it to me because it was his father's name, and his father's before that. Four generations of Halcomb men, all of us too stubborn to know when to quit."
Arlo.
She turned the name over in her mind, feeling the shape of it. It fit him—quiet and old-fashioned and solid, the kind of name that belonged to someone who built things that lasted.
"Arlo," she repeated, and watched his eyes darken at the sound of it on her lips.
"Only you." His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. "That name's only for you."
"Then use mine."
She kissed him.
The first press of his mouth was careful, questioning—a man asking permission even as he claimed what she'd offered. Ivy answered by sinking her fingers into his hair and pulling him deeper, showing him without words that she didn't want careful.
She wanted consumed.
He groaned against her lips and gave her what she asked for.
His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her with an urgency that made her knees weak.
She clutched at his shoulders for balance as he walked her backward, his hands already working at her clothes.
The cut hit the floor first, heavy leather pooling at their feet.
Then his shirt, yanked over his head with an impatience that matched her own.
Ivy's breath caught at the sight of him—all lean muscle and scarred skin, the body of a man who worked with his hands and fought with his fists. She traced the ridges of his abdomen, feeling muscles twitch beneath her touch.
"Your turn." His voice had dropped to something low and dangerous. His fingers found the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion, leaving her in nothing but her bra. "Christ, Ivy."
"What?"
"You're—" He shook his head, words failing him. Instead he showed her, his mouth dropping to the curve of her neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin before his tongue soothed the sting. His hands spanned her waist, thumbs tracing circles on her bare stomach as his lips trailed lower.
The clasp of her bra gave way under his fingers, and then his mouth was on her breast, hot and wet and devastating.
Ivy gasped, her head falling back as he sucked her nipple to a hard peak, his tongue circling and flicking until she was clutching his head and grinding against the hard length she could feel pressing against her hip.
"Need you," she panted. "Arlo, I need—"
"I know what you need."
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed.
They fell together, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his hips settling between her thighs.
Even through layers of denim, she could feel him—thick and hard and straining toward her.
"These need to go." She fumbled with his belt, fingers clumsy with want.
He helped her, shucking his jeans and boxers in one motion while she wiggled out of her own pants. And then there was nothing between them—just skin on skin, heat on heat, his cock pressing hot and heavy against her thigh.
He paused, bracing himself above her, and the tenderness in his expression nearly undid her.
"Ivy." Her name came out reverent. "Tell me this is real. Tell me I'm not going to wake up and find out I dreamed you."
"It's real." She cupped his face in her hands, pulled him down for a kiss that was more breath than contact. "I'm real. This is real. Now please, Arlo—please—"
His hand slid between them, fingers finding her slick and swollen and ready. She cried out when he touched her, hips bucking into his palm, desperate for friction.
"So wet." He stroked through her folds, spreading her arousal, circling her clit with a pressure that made her see stars. "All this for me?"
"All for you. Only—oh God—only for you."
He slid one finger inside her, then two, stretching her gently while his thumb kept working her clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming—pleasure building in waves, cresting higher with every stroke. She was close, so close, her inner walls clenching around his fingers—
He pulled back.
"Not yet." His voice was strained, barely controlled. "Want to feel you come around my cock the first time."
"Then stop teasing and fuck me."
Something wild flashed in his eyes. He notched himself at her entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against her opening, and held there.
"Look at me."
She met his gaze.
"Mine," he said, and thrust home.
The stretch of him filling her stole her breath.
He was big—bigger than she'd expected—and her body needed a moment to adjust. He held himself still, jaw clenched, every muscle trembling with the effort of not moving.
"You okay?"
"More than okay." She rolled her hips experimentally, gasping at the sensation. "Move. Please move."
He moved.
Slow at first—long, deep strokes that let her feel every inch of him. His cock dragged against her inner walls with a friction that was almost too good, too intense. She wrapped her legs around his waist, changing the angle, and they both groaned at how much deeper he sank.
"Fuck, Ivy." He dropped his forehead to hers, breath coming in ragged bursts. "You feel—you're so tight—so fucking perfect—"
"Harder."
He gave her harder.
The careful rhythm shattered into something wilder—his hips snapping against hers, the obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. Ivy clawed at his back, urging him on, meeting every thrust with a roll of her own hips.
"That's it." He lifted her leg higher, opening her up, driving deeper. "Take all of me. Every inch. You were made for this—made for me—"
"Yes—Arlo—yes—"
The orgasm hit her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. She cried out his name—his real name—as her body clenched and pulsed around him, pleasure radiating outward until every nerve ending sang.
He fucked her through it, prolonging the sensation, his own rhythm growing erratic as her orgasm triggered his. Three more deep strokes and then he was coming too, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded like her name, like a prayer, like a vow.
They lay tangled together in the aftermath, sweat-slicked and breathless.
Ivy's head rested on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. His arm curved around her, holding her close, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare back. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something sweeter underneath.
"I didn't know," he said quietly, "that it could feel like that."
"Like what?"
"Like—" He struggled for words. "Like everything I've been missing. Like the thing I was building toward without knowing it existed."
Ivy lifted her head to look at him. His face was soft in the darkness, the hard edges melted away by intimacy and trust.
"Mae loves you," she said. "You know that, right? She's loved you since you left that first big tip and looked at her like she mattered."
Something flickered across his expression. Not fear—not quite—but close. The kind of overwhelmed wonder that came with being offered something you'd stopped believing you deserved.
"I don't—" He stopped, swallowed. "I don't know how to do this. Be what she needs. Be what you need. I've never had anything worth keeping before, and now I have both of you, and I don't know how to hold on without crushing."
"You learn." Ivy reached up and traced his jaw with her fingertips. "That's all any of us do. We learn as we go and we mess up and we try again. The only thing that matters is showing up. Staying when it gets hard."
"I can do that."
"I know you can."
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. The gesture was so tender, so unlike the urgency of moments ago, that tears pricked at her eyes.
"Go to sleep," he murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Ivy let her eyes close, let exhaustion and satisfaction pull her toward sleep. Splinter's heartbeat was steady under her ear, his arm warm around her, his breathing evening out as he followed her toward rest.
"Arlo?"
"Mm?"
"I'm glad it was you. Whatever comes next—I'm glad you're the one who walked into my diner."
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick with something she didn't dare name.
"Mae loves me?"
"More than hot dogs and Frozen combined."
A huff of laughter. "That's a lot."
"It is."
She felt him smile against her hair. Felt his arm tighten around her, possessive and protective and present.
"I don't know what to do with that," he admitted. "Except not run."
Ivy smiled into his chest.
It was enough.
It was everything.