Page 21 of Undercover Star
"When you suspect your target has a knife, you approach him from the right, so you can immobilise his knife hand." Josh lectured as if Matisse were a three-year-old. A very slow three-year-old.
"How did you know he wasn't left-handed?"
"I didn't know. You, on the other hand, saw him pick the lock. You should have seen he was right-handed and come at him from that side."
"Because that's something they teach in rock star school. Right? How could I have known he had a knife? You never mentioned that he might be armed. If you knew, didn't you think that might have been a useful fact to share?"
There was the Matisse he'd grown used to seeing. He looked so much better with flashing eyes and a bit of colour in his cheeks. Some of Josh's anger dissipated and he realised it wasn't all fury over losing the thief. Part of his agitation was fear that Matisse could have gotten hurt. "I hadn't planned to let you anywhere near him. You're a civilian. You should never have been put in this position. I've said this from the start."
"You wouldn't have gotten into Kilbride House on your own."
"No, most likely not. But I wouldn't have put an innocent bystander in danger, either. I'm a police officer, for fuck's sake. I'm supposed to protect the likes of you."
"The likes of me. Hapless, clueless, helpless civilians."
"Yes. We do what we do, so you don't have to."
Sitting still wasn't something Matisse was good at. At least his living room was large enough to allow him to pace at a clip. When Matisse stopped, they stood at opposite ends of the room, facing off as if for a duel. "So, you think I'm utterly useless."
Josh wanted to disagree, but Matisse was on a roll.
"You think I'm useless when I got closer to him than you ever did. I watched him take the cross, not the jet cameos. And I know he's from Greenock."
"What?" Josh struggled to get past speechless. "He's what?"
"From Greenock."
"How do you know this?"
"Because I fucking spoke to him!"
Josh hoped the apartment was soundproof. "And he had a Scots accent?"
"No. He had a Greenock accent." Matisse came closer. "And I know what one sounds like, because Greenock's where I was born."
"You don't sound like the Scotsman you claim to be."
"Not like you, then. You totally sound like the jerk you are."
They faced off in Matisse's living room, Matisse livid and passionate, while Josh felt... he wasn't really sure what. His gaze snagged once again on Matisse's long legs, looking sinful in clinging denim. He was tired of arguing. He was angry at himself for losing the thief yet again, for losing his chance to get one step closer to solving Paul's murder. He was livid for allowing Matisse to be in danger. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, all the fire and fury Matisse threw his way turned him on.
The swirl of emotions he'd held at arm's length for so long wasn't comfortable. Pinning the loose-limbed singer to the wall and kissing the stupid right out of him was an excellent way to deal with it.
––––––––
TRAPPED BETWEEN A HARDwall and Josh's hard, hot body was a damned fine place to be. Josh tasted like sin and desperation, and Matisse couldn't get enough. He wound his fingers into Josh's curls and pulled him closer, opening himself to the onslaught.
His body was on fire, his skin too tight, and breath in short supply. Josh's scent, the mix of spicy cologne and man, had started heat deep in his belly, and Josh's kiss, demanding and attentive at once, took his control.
He swallowed a whimper when Josh stroked upwards from his hip and grazed a hard nipple with his palm. He arched into the touch, needing more, and Josh drew back and smiled against his lips.
"Like that, do you?"
"Yes." His voice was a breathy wheeze, and escaped him forever when Josh used his thumb to rub over the hardened nub, right through Matisse's T-shirt. It was maddening, and wonderful—too little and too much at the same time. Matisse pushed into the touch and traded clinging for dear life to Josh's hair, to running his hands up and down Josh's back and sides.
Josh flinched at the caress, and Matisse recalled in a wave of chagrin that Josh was hurt. He pushed away from the wall, struggled out from under Josh's pleasurable weight, and slid sideways. He twined their fingers together and yanked. "Bed. Much more comfortable."
Josh didn't argue, but he wasn't in a hurry, either. Or maybe he was in more of a hurry to grab another kiss than reach a horizontal surface. He pushed Matisse against the door frame for a longer taste, but then got the door open and the two of them into the room and onto the bed.
