Page 100 of Roaring Flames

“We usually wait until we find the one. Do you get what I mean?” His earnest eyes ensnare my own.

For a moment, I’m helpless to look away, trapped in his gaze.

Then his words register.

Is he saying…?

Do shifters wait until they meet their mates before having sex? Before dating? Would that mean…? No. There’s no way.

No fucking way.

Ethan, maybe.

Emery, no. Hell no.

“That’s…kind of romantic, in a way that makes me want to vomit,” Ansel deadpans.

“We all know the only action you’re getting is from that stick shoved up your ass,” Emery snaps, glaring at him over his shoulder.

I give Emery’s arm a squeeze and whisper, “Behave.”

A strange tremor works its way through him. He gives me a look out of the corner of his eyes that’s full of barely suppressed heat.

My stomach flips over itself.

I quicken my pace—pulling in front of the twins and Ansel—and reach the entrance first.

I’m immediately greeted by the smell of greasy cheese and sauce. In the distance, I can hear the beeping of arcade games and the laughter of children. An adult curses, and a woman giggles.

Ethan bounces on the tips of his toes like a kid in a candy shop.

Or a nerd in an arcade.

“You’re kind of a geek, aren’t you?” I say to him, unable to hide the fondness in my voice.

His eyes snap to mine, and a grin lights up his face. He’s handsome normally, but when he smiles like that…

The butterflies in my stomach go crazy.

“As if I’m the only one.” He scoffs.

“You ready for me to kick your ass at every single arcade game here?” I tease.

Something in his expression softens the longer he looks at me. “I think I can suck up my masculine pride and lose graciously.”

“As if.” Emery throws his arms around both of our shoulders and steers us towards the front counter, where a bored-looking attendant sells tokens. “We all know you’re a sore loser.”

“Am not.”

“You totally cried when I beat you at bumper cars.”

“I was six, Emery. Six!”

I reach behind me before we can get too far and interlock my fingers with Ansel’s, tugging him closer to us. He looks moderately surprised, but then he smiles, and my heart squeezes painfully.

“You threw a toy car at my head,” Emery retorts.

“I. Was. Six. And it wasn’t at your head. It was supposed to be your stomach.”

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