It's too much not to respond; John has never been one to not get the last word, so he's certainly not going to settle for no words at all. He backs up a bit, replaces his mouth with his hand, slow lazy strokes that are entirely too teasing on purpose. But it's Q's fault, of course it is.
But now he's not exactly positive what to say, and so just sort of blurts words and hopes they make sense (it's difficult, he's so fucking hard over this that thinking is nigh impossible). "Should've called, love, you weren't the only one doing the missing. Fuck if I'm not a bit jealous," he punctuates his words with kisses, every end stop and comma offers a bite or a little nip at whatever he can get his mouth on -- Q's wrists, palms, hips, that little curve of a spot that turns into ribs. "But pictures--fuck. You're too fucking irresistible, it's goddamn ridiculous, you don't even know, do you?"