Page 44 of Undercover Star
What caught Josh's attention, what made his mouth go dry and his jeans grow uncomfortably tight, was the rest of the tableau: Matisse's full lips, slack with pleasure, and the hand disappearing down the front of his trousers, moving slow and steady, in time with a melody Josh couldn't hear.
Matisse hadn't heard him ring the doorbell.
Matisse hadn't heard him come in.
Seeing how he looked, Matisse clearly didn't give a shit.
It was the hottest thing Josh had ever seen. Just standing in the doorway watching was not an option. He moved towards Matisse as if drawn by a string. At the last minute, he changed his mind and stepped around to the back of the couch. With infinite care, he set his palms on Matisse's chest, right over his sensitive nipples, and caught both the startled gasp and Matisse's deep moan with his mouth as he touched their lips together.
It still amazed him how much it turned Matisse on to have his nipples tweaked and rubbed, and it reminded him once more of his plan to see whether he could make Mat come from nothing more than that.
Matisse was putty in his hands. He let Josh remove the headphones, and arched into his kiss and his touch. Matisse's hand sped up as he worked himself harder while Josh helped him along. When their air ran out, Josh moved his lips, first to tease along the edge of Matisse's ear, then down the long column of his neck. It left Matisse's mouth free to make sounds, and Josh relished the noises. His position, leaning against the back of the couch, was suddenly no longer good enough, not even with the view he had from on high. He wanted out of his clothes, wanted Matisse equally naked and pressed up against him in all the ways that counted.
He reached down and stilled Matisse's stroking hand. "Bed. Now," he rasped, not entirely sure they'd make it. Maybe he could pull Matisse upright and bend him over the back of the couch.
His expression must have given him away. Matisse moved from his sprawl with exaggerated slowness, a very cheeky grin on his face. "I didn't hear you come in."
"You wouldn't have heard an army of robbers." He nodded at the couch and the discarded headphones. "Needed that, did you?"
Matisse crowded into his space. "Still need it," he growled. "You owe me at least an orgasm for interrupting."
Josh slid his hands under Matisse's T-shirt, gliding over defined muscles and caressing skin. "Just waiting for a chance to pay my debt." He leaned down to nuzzle the side of Matisse's face.
And spotted the bruise.
It spread from the top of Matisse's cheekbone towards his temple and hairline. Not obvious while Matisse's hair was loose, but when Josh pushed the long strands back, it stood out.
"What the fuck?"
"Don't," Matisse whined and tugged at him. "Come back here."
"Who gave you a black eye?"
"It's just a bruise. It's fine."
"It is not fine." Josh had experience assessing bruises, and this one wasn't harmless. "Who do I need to beat up?"
"Nobody." Matisse stepped back. "I told you, it's fine. It'll be gone in a week, and if it's not there's makeup."
He tried to get away, but Josh cupped his other palm around Matisse's jaw and turned his face to the light for a better view. "How'd you get it?"
"Fans."
"What?"
Matisse sighed. He tried to pull away again, and this time, Josh let him. "Fans," he said again. "They waited outside the studio and followed me."
"The bruise?"
"I signed a few autographs, there was a scuffle. I think one of the ladies caught me with her handbag or something. She musta been carrying rocks."
"Where were Oats and Rigger?"
"Not on today. I've not had anything public all week."
"That's such a bullshit rule. You should have them with you all the time."
"You don't know a thing about it."
