Valerian felt himself go stiff as Greengrass stepped closer, putting no more than a foot of space between them. He didn't still out of discomfort or anxiousness—no, he was only anxious to reach out and wrap his arms around Greengrass' waist, to trace the planes of his back through his coat, or maybe even under it if he allowed his mind to wander that far out of the realm of reality. Valerian wanted him—not just in a sexual way, but in a different, but still very physical way. He wanted to be wrapped around Greengrass, to wrap Greengrass around him, to bury his head in the crook of his neck and feel the rhythmic beating of his pulse.

In any case, it would have been easier to show what he wanted than it would be to write it down on a letter. He'd always been better at showing than telling, but Greengass clearly intended to make him prove how badly he wanted him, intended to torture him by making him sit at a desk and contemplate all his options for getting the man back in his bed. "I'm not the most eloquent correspondent," he responded, mindlessly reaching out to trace his fingertips down the arm of Greengrass' jacket, pulling back the second his fingertips brushed against the back of Greengrass' hand, "And I don't think I need to write a letter to tell you what I want." Greengrass knew what he wanted, didn't he? The answer should be rather obvious now if it hadn't been before.

"But if it's what you need," he said, his gaze dropping from Greengrass' eyes, down to his lips, "I suppose I can manage it."

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