Breaking Bro Code

Chapter 6

The penthouse felt smaller today. Or maybe it was just that Roman’s presence had expanded, filling every corner, every shadow, and every breath I took. After the confession in the kitchen, the air between us had shifted into something volatile. It was like living on a fault line; we both knew an earthquake was coming, but we were just waiting for the first tremor.

I spent the morning trying to reclaim some semblance of normalcy, which for me meant organizing. My life had been ripped out from under me, and I needed something to control. I started with the library—a massive, vaulted room with walls of books that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. I was arranging them by color and height, trying to distract my mind from the fact that I was currently living in a man's fortress while his best friend—my brother—thought I was away on a "girl’s trip."

Roman was in his office, or so I thought, until the heavy doors opened and he sauntered into the living room. He’d swapped the grey sweatpants for a pair of fitted black joggers and a loose white t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. He looked effortlessly lethal.

He didn't speak. He just walked over to the massive wall-mounted television, grabbed the remote, and turned it on, completely ignoring the fact that I was halfway up a rolling library ladder trying to reach a shelf.

"I'm organizing this, Roman," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "Could you maybe not?"

He didn't even look back at me. "The game replays are on, Allie. I need to study the coverage."

"And I need to be able to reach the books without the TV blaring," I countered, climbing down the ladder. I marched over to the couch, my face flushed with a mixture of annoyance and, if I were being honest, the sheer frustration of being ignored. "Give me the remote."

He finally looked at me, a lazy, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You want it? Come and get it."

He held the remote high above his head, well out of my reach. I was five-foot-six; he was a six-foot-three mountain of professional athlete muscle. It was a joke, a taunt, and he knew it.

"Roman, stop being an ass," I snapped, reaching up, my fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the floor. He sidestepped, moving behind the sectional. "You're going to have to do better than that, sweetheart."

I didn't think—I just reacted. I lunged over the back of the plush, velvet sofa, aiming for the hand holding the remote. I caught his wrist, my weight pulling him down, and we tumbled onto the massive cushions in a tangle of limbs.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

I was on top of him, my hands pinned against his chest to keep my balance. His grip on my wrists was instantaneous—not rough, but iron-clad. He held my hands above my head, pressing them into the soft velvet of the sofa, effectively pinning me in place.

The air in the room suddenly vanished.

"You're very persistent," he breathed, his voice dropping an octave. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a dark, simmering hunger that made my skin flush.

"You're incredibly frustrating," I retorted, but the words lacked any real bite. My pulse was thundering in my ears, a frantic, heavy rhythm.

Roman shifted, his hips coming up to meet mine, locking our bodies together. Through the fabric of our clothes, I could feel the hardness of him, the absolute, undeniable proof of his desire. He wasn't just teasing anymore. He was hunting.

He leaned up, his face hovering just inches from mine. "You shouldn't climb all over me, Allie. You have no idea what that does to my head."

"Then don't bait me," I whispered, my breath hitching as he leaned in closer.

He let out a ragged, guttural sound and dived in. His mouth crushed against mine in a kiss that was starving, desperate, and completely unhinged. It wasn't the tentative, careful kiss of a friend; it was a demand. His tongue swept into my mouth, bold and possessive, tasting me, claiming me.

I let out a broken gasp, my body melting into his. His hands released my wrists, only to slide down to my waist, his fingers digging into my hips with a strength that left bruises. He pulled me flush against him, our bodies grinding together in a rhythm that felt ancient and inevitable.

His free hand moved up, sliding under the hem of my shirt, his palm splayed against the bare, heated skin of my back. The contrast of his rough, calloused touch against my soft skin sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through my spine. I arched into him, a silent plea for more, my hands gripping his shoulders, my fingers digging into his muscles.

He groaned into my mouth, a sound of pure agony and ecstasy. "God, Allie," he rasped, breaking the kiss to trail wet, searing tracks of heat down my jawline, to the sensitive pulse point at my neck. "I’ve been thinking about this for years. Every time I looked at you, every time I talked to you, this is all I wanted."

He was wrecking me. I was shaking, my entire body humming with a frequency I hadn't known I possessed. I felt wild, completely untethered from the girl who had walked into that bar feeling broken. Right now, in the shadow of this man, I felt powerful. I felt wanted.

His hand moved again, his thumb brushing against the side of my breast, a touch so intimate and possessive that it made my head spin. I let out a low, needy moan, my legs tangling with his, trying to close the distance between us even further.

He was nearly gone, I could tell. His breathing was ragged, his body rigid with the effort of holding back. He moved his hand lower, his touch drifting, mapping the curve of my hip, his intentions clear, his desire radiating off him like heat from a furnace.

Then, the shrill, mechanical chime of the private elevator echoed through the penthouse, cutting through the haze like a blade.

Roman froze. He let out a harsh, jagged curse, his forehead dropping against my shoulder, his chest heaving with the force of his frustration. We stayed there for a second, locked together, our breath hitching in the silence, our bodies still screaming for the contact we were being forced to deny.

He pulled back, his eyes dark, dilated, and filled with a raw, agonizing hunger. He stood up, smoothing his hair back with a trembling hand, his breathing still erratic. He looked at me, his gaze lingering on my lips—swollen and red from his kiss—and his expression softened into something that was almost apologetic.

"That's the courier," he said, his voice raw, struggling to reclaim the control he’d almost completely shattered. "I have to take this. Stay here."

He didn't wait for me to respond. He walked toward the foyer, his gait stiff, his entire body tight with repressed energy. I remained on the sofa, my heart hammering, my skin still tingling from his touch. I looked at the ceiling, trying to steady my breathing, my hands still shaking.

I was a mess.

I was living in his house, keeping his secrets, and I was seconds away from completely losing my mind to the man who was supposed to be my protector. And the worst part? As I sat there in the silence of the massive, empty room, listening to the muffled sounds of his voice at the door, I realized I didn't want to be protected.

I wanted to be consumed.

**How was that for "heavy petting"?** I made sure to crank the intensity up on the sofa scene to match that "scorching blaze" we’re aiming for. Does this feel right for your readers, or should I push it even further? Ready for Chapter 7?