Catfish and the Bottlemen Imagines

The Right Time - Bondy

Johnny's palms cupped your jaw and his thumbs smoothed your cheekbones, at complete odds with the force of his hips pressing yours firmly against the door, while his boot kicked his abandoned suitcase and carry-on roughly aside.

"Fuckin hell I've missed you," he growled in your ear.

He swallowed your reply, his warm, wet lips enveloping yours, moving with a hunger that sent your head spinning, into a flood of pent up desire from long months of waiting, worrying, wondering.

His hands latched onto your hips, then your ass, your lower back, your shoulderblades; he couldn't settle, wanting his hands everywhere at once while he covered you in sloppy, hungry kisses.

You lived for him like this.

Your easygoing, smirking, teasing man, always self-possessed, always with a witty comeback, a shrug and a grin, an unhurried drag of his cigarette.

Only one thing could throw him off balance, send him reeling into a heady tailspin. Could make him forget himself and and act with pure compulsion.

And that was you. Your feminine curves, your flowing hair, your sly smile, your soft lips and wide wry eyes that had sparkled in his dreams for months while he was away.

His tongue ran along your jaw, swirling into your neck; his head lifted slightly as he whispered a throaty "want you so fuckin bad" before his teeth scraped at your earlobe, sending a shudder racking through you.

"Johnny," you purred, and tugged on his belt loops, your head thumping back against the door. His musk intoxicated you, his heat inflamed you. Even the feel of his threadbare button-down shirt sent you reeling.

His fingers curved gently around your ribs, smoothing in circles under your shirt as he layered slow kisses and nips across your collarbone. You simmered under his touch, each brush of his heavenly tongue sending more warm wetness pulsing between your legs.

His thumbs brushed under your breasts, across the thin satin of your bra, then swept across your nipples, erect and straining against the smooth fabric.

"Please, John," you stuttered, your eyes catching his, so dark and desperate for you that your breath caught in your throat.

He hissed in a breath and pulled your shirt off, pinning your hands above you, eliciting an eager gasp from your lips.

His right fingers tangled with yours while his left fingers crawled up under the satin, pushing it aside and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

"You're a fucking goddess," he whispered, his breath hot on your ear, and your eyes rolled back in bliss.

You knew what would come next, Johnny always took care of you first, and the thought tripled the already pulsing ache between your thighs. He pulled back slightly and you stepped forward from the wall, expecting him to clasp your hand and drag you to the bedroom.

Instead he hooked his palms under your thighs and lifted you, pressing you into the door, your legs round his waist.

He looked at you, his breath shaky and ragged, and snaked a hand between you to tear open your jeans.

A murmured "fuck" left your lips as his thumb dipped into your panties, brushing across your dripping folds as he pressed his torso into you. The back of your head thudded into the door as he encircled your clit, making wide sweeping strokes.

You whined with desire, your breath coming harder as you rode his thumb, pressing yourself against his abdomen.

His breath grew into ragged gasps, his mouth in your hair, as you started to whimper, your arousal mounting exponentially with each slip of his thumb, each thrust of your hips.