Martin turns a rather fetching shade of pink, and it's all John can do to keep from grinning outright. He's well aware that he's being a shit, but it's not as if that's so unusual, really. Particularly where games such as this one are concerned. So he waits, patient and unrepentant, for Martin to scrape together enough wherewithal to respond. And he does, once again lobbing the ball squarely down the center of the proverbial court, leaving John with a wealth of options on the return.

"Oh?" he starts, eyebrows lifting in apparent surprise. "You mean to say you've never considered... ducking into the stacks, or shutting us both in one of our offices, away from any prying eyes? Never imagined me, say, pinning you against one of our desks?" Both options are such established stereotypes that they require no great feats of imagination on his part; surely they've already occurred to Martin. Tipping his head a little in ostensible consideration (and taking care to school his expression), John adds, "And that's to say nothing of the creative uses we might find for the very cot upon which we sit."

He takes another sip of cocoa, mostly to stop himself laughing, then clears his throat. "Well, of course you haven't. Too honorable, as I said. I do hope I haven't ruined your good opinion of me by airing such scandalous ideas."