Breaking Bro Code

Chapter 3

The drive to Roman’s penthouse was a blur of rain-slicked asphalt and the rhythmic, low thrum of the city at 2:00 AM. Roman drove with one hand on the wheel and his other arm draped over the back of my seat, his fingers occasionally brushing against my shoulder or the nape of my neck. It was a casual, dominant claim that made the air in the car feel impossibly thin. He didn't speak, but his presence was a heavy, comforting weight, shielding me from the shattered remains of the night.

When the car finally pulled into the private underground garage of his building, the silence felt charged. He killed the engine, but he didn’t move to get out. He turned, the low light from the dashboard casting sharp, dramatic shadows across his face.

"We’re here," he said, his voice a low rasp.

He helped me out of the car, his hand firmly gripping my elbow as he led me toward the private elevator. The lobby of his building was a temple of cold marble and high-end security. We bypassed the front desk entirely, Roman’s presence alone enough to keep the night staff from even glancing in our direction.

The elevator ride up felt like an ascent into another world. When the doors finally slid open, I stepped into a space that took my breath away.

The penthouse was massive, a sprawling expanse of chrome, floor-to-ceiling glass, and dark, masculine textures. It looked down over the entire city, the grid of lights below looking like a scattered handful of diamonds. It was beautiful, but it was also sterile, cold, and undeniably intimidating. It was a fortress.

"Take off the coat, Allie," Roman said, closing the heavy door behind us. The lock clicked, a sound of absolute finality.

I slid the trench coat from my shoulders, letting it pool on the polished floor. I was left in the black lace slip dress, the fabric feeling flimsy and provocative in the vast, open space. I crossed my arms over my chest, a sudden wave of vulnerability washing over me as I felt his gaze travel over my bare skin.

He moved toward me, his steps heavy and purposeful. He stopped only inches away, the heat radiating from his body a stark contrast to the chilled glass of the apartment.

"You look like you're freezing," he murmured, his eyes locked on mine. He reached out, his hands hovering just above my shoulders before he finally made contact. The touch was electric, his palms broad and warm against the delicate straps of my dress. He slowly pushed them down, his thumbs grazing the sensitive skin of my collarbone.

I sucked in a sharp breath. The air in the room seemed to ignite.

"Roman," I whispered, the name a shaky plea.

"I know," he replied, his voice dropping to a gravelly, haunted tone. He stepped into my space, his chest pressed against mine, his hands sliding down to rest at the small of my back. He pulled me flush against him, his movements controlled, yet underneath that control was a current of raw, uncontained hunger.

He bent his head, his nose brushing against the curve of my neck, inhaling deeply. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to get you out of that house. Out of that fake life you were living."

His hands tightened on my waist, his thumbs digging into the soft skin, testing, demanding. The proximity was dizzying. I could feel the hard planes of his abs against my stomach, the solid, unyielding strength of him. My head fell back, a involuntary sigh escaping my lips as his lips ghosted against my skin, trailing heat from my throat to the hollow behind my ear.

He was nearly losing it. I could feel it in the way his muscles were coiled, in the way his breath was coming in short, jagged bursts. He pressed his hips into mine, a friction that was both an invitation and a warning. My hands came up to rest on his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and I felt his heart thudding—a rapid, frantic rhythm that matched my own.

He pushed me back, his hands framing my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. For a second, his eyes softened, raw and unguarded. He leaned in, his lips parted, an inch away from mine, his scent—that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and leather—filling my lungs.

Then, he stopped.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a mask of pain and frustration tightening his features. He let out a harsh, ragged breath, his hands dropping from my face as if he’d been burned. He stepped back, putting two feet of distance between us, his chest heaving.

"No," he muttered, his voice cold and jagged. He turned his back to me, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window, his posture rigid. "I can’t do this. Not like this. Not while you’re broken from someone else."

I stood there, feeling the sudden, jarring absence of his heat, my skin tingling where his hands had just been.

"Allie," he said, not turning around. "You’re staying here. This is your sanctuary. But there are rules."

"Rules?" I echoed, my voice sounding small in the vast, quiet room.

He finally turned, his expression back to his usual, unreadable, commanding self—the star quarterback, the untouchable league hero. "The rules are simple. You stay here where I can keep you safe, where I know no one can touch you. But the nature of your stay? The fact that you’re here, alone with me in my penthouse?" He looked at me, his gaze dark and intense. "That stays between us. We keep this quiet. For everyone’s sake."

I nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling in. It was a secret. A dangerous, forbidden secret. And as I looked at him—the man who had just saved me, the man who was currently warring with his own restraint—I knew I wouldn't have it any other way.