KISS NUMBER FIVE
Spike watched the double doors of the newsroom swing shut behind Lynda, and heard the noise level rise in her wake.
He'd gradually noticed, over his months working for the Junior Gazette, that she often did this – pushed the panic button, counted to ten, then left the room to enable the nasty comments to flow freely without having to pretend not to hear.
Which, he supposed, was quite perceptive of her to realise that the news team needed some space – even if, in this case, it was just that the final paste-up deadline needed to be brought forward by half an hour – and to give them it on a plate. Not that he'd ever tell her he'd worked out what was going on – hell, he could barely even spell "perceptive" – but it pleased him that he had worked out just a little of what went on in that over-filled brain of hers.
"Kenny…" a plaintive, female whine started up, ten paces behind his desk and getting nearer. "She can't…"
Spike stood up, and pushed his chair back so hard that his whole desk shook. He flipped his sunglasses further up his nose with the aid of his index finger, then gradually sauntered towards the double doors in the direction of Lynda. He wasn't going to sit around and listen to them complain about her. Not right now. Not while his feelings for her were so raw and tangled.
At the doors he glanced back and surveyed the scene. Kenny appeared to be surrounded by four girls in varying states of anger and agitation, a small whirlwind with a large amount of blonde wisps was blowing through the graphics room, and Colin appeared to be going in for the kill with someone over the telephone. And typewriters clattered and pinged around the entire room.
So far, so good.
Everyone appeared occupied – so no-one would look for him for a good few minutes. And he could count on their irritation with Lynda to keep anyone desiring to see her at bay for a few more minutes past that too.
He positioned himself by the door to the toilet, and waited.
The door was yanked open, and the sign flapped in the resulting breeze. Lynda stopped mid-stride on spotting him. She rocked on the balls of her feet as her momentum faded, then turned to face him with one eyebrow raised, and a half-icy, half-amused look in her eyes.
She crossed her arms, and regarded him coolly.
"Spike…" she said. It wasn't a question, but more of a statement that needed no answer. Despite the lack of obvious encouragement, Spike decided to play along. He crossed his arms in a direct imitation of her, raised his eyebrow above the rim of his sunglasses, and regarded her just as coolly.
"Yeah…" he said, in exactly the same manner.
"Fancy meeting you like this," said Lynda, completely unfazed at having her tactics and mannerisms played back at her. She glanced at the corridor behind him, then turned to look over her shoulder, as if to reassure herself that they were truly alone. The corners of her mouth twitched, but you couldn't really call it a smile.
"Again," said Spike, not changing the tone of his voice in the slightest.
"Again," echoed Lynda in confirmation. "But there's something missing," she added, in what Spike decided, no, hoped, was a slight attempt to lighten the mood of the conversation."
"Yeah?" said Spike, pulling his sunglasses down his nose, and looking at her over the top of the rims. He wondered where this was going now. Say what you like about Lynda – and most people usually did – she had a good knack of keeping people on their guard with the minimum of words.
"No pyjamas…" said Lynda, slightly triumphantly, and with a hint of a grin. Something inside Spike leapt to life – to hell with being guarded, this woman was something else – and he leant towards her with a leer that was intended to be slightly suggestive.
"Mmmm," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "Brushed cotton…"
Lynda clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the giggle that threatened to escape and alert the rest of the news team to what was going on in the corridor.
Spike smiled, and pushed his sunglasses up to balance on the top of his head. He'd made her laugh. And, come to think of it, those pyjamas she'd worn the night of the all-nighter had been kind of sexy. He wondered if she'd…
Lynda cut short any further thoughts with one swift movement. She grabbed his hand, meeting his eyes with hers, and pulled him towards the wall beside the main double doors.
"Come here," she said, her voice having dropped an octave.
Spike started to move his mouth into a satisfied smile, but she was too quick for him and touched her lips to his almost immediately, and the smile turned into a slight sigh as he sank into her.
Lynda brought her arms up to encircle his neck, and gently rubbed one thumb along his hairline, while curling her other palm into the short curls at the back of his head.
Encouraged, Spike pushed her back towards the wall very gently, and attempted to mould his body to hers, but – despite having initiated the kiss – Lynda clearly had no intention of being moulded to. At least just yet – he encountered her elbows at chest level forming a very definite barrier.
If his mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied, Spike would have frowned. This was entirely new – any other girl he'd had in this position had been soft and compliant and wanting and entirely delicious. He hadn't counted on frustrating and guarded, and, despite this being Lynda and the girl of his dreams, he really wasn't sure he knew where it was going. Or that he was going to fully enjoy it either.
Time for a different tactic, he decided, and flexed his lips to gradually open those beneath them.
Lynda's mouth faltered slightly under his own, and for a second Spike thought she might break the kiss, but she seemed to make a quick decision and parted her lips ever so slowly.
Spike brought his hands to either side of her waist, encountering the cold surface of the wall behind them with his knuckles, and stroked both thumbs down the plain of her stomach, on top of her t-shirt.
Lynda sighed slightly, and her mouth opened wider.
Very softly, Spike brought his tongue forward and touched it to her bottom lip. He kept his thumbs moving, ever so gently.
She removed her hand from the back of his head, slid it down over his chest with the palm open – Spike's nipple hardened instantly – and then reached around his back to pull one side of him closer.
Spike's brain blew a quick trumpet fanfare. This was progress. This was how he wanted her.
He tentatively touched his tongue to her bottom lip again, but further forward this time. He remembered how eager she'd been to kiss like this on Saturday night, and wondered faintly why she was hesitating so much now – but he supposed Saturday night, in the dark, after a glass or two of wine at a very fancy party, was very different to Wednesday night in a brightly lit newsroom corridor, where they could be discovered at any moment.
The tip of Lynda's tongue crept forward, and met his. Something exploded behind his closed eyelids, and he grunted slightly and pressed closer to her again, encountering less of a barrier this time.
His right hand crept up under the hem of her t-shirt, and rested against her hip. He twisted his fingers and encountered the flesh of her waist, stroking gently with the merest of brushes from his fingertips.
Skin. He had skin.
Unable to help himself, Spike pressed forward, and laid the whole length of his tongue against hers, moving his hips nearer and nearer, and pushing harder against the wall. He pushed his hands further up underneath her t-shirt, slightly surprised at his daring. At first Lynda's tongue might have started to writhe against his, but then she kept it stock still, and certainly nowhere near his tonsils.
She brought her other hand down from his neck, and placed it on his side, pushing him backwards.
Their lips parted, and they separated, although Spike's eyes roved her face to check – or hope – that this was just a quick break in proceedings, and they could get back to what they'd started with a minimum of fuss.
For several heavy, drooping seconds, they stared at each other, mouths open and wet.
"Lynda…" called a female voice from behind the closed newsroom doors. Both Spike and Lynda dropped their arms immediately, and Lynda leapt away from him sideways along the wall, as if she'd been scolded.
"For the last time, Thompson," she snapped, her eyes instantly glinting cold and dangerously, "I am not going out with you!" Her arms folded in front of her, and she fixed him with a determined look.
"Huh?" said Spike, confused, as Sarah appeared through the newsroom doors.
"Oh, uh, yeah," Spike stumbled, as he gradually cottoned on to the latest round of pretending to the outside world that there was nothing going on between them. "Er, why not?!" he raised his voice indignantly, and very convincingly, in his opinion.
"Because…" Lynda started, but was cut short by Sarah.
"Is it ok if I go now?" she asked, in a voice that didn't show any trace of curiosity at what had been occurring, as if she'd heard it all before and was bored with it. Which, Spike supposed, she probably had.
"All my stories are done, and being pasted up, and I've got Raymond's cast party to go to, so I ought to go home and change," finished Sarah. She just focused on Lynda, and didn't even bother to acknowledge Spike.
"Yeah, sure," said Lynda, looking a little grateful that her friend wasn't going to question what had been going on, or make a fuss. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Have fun."
"You too," said Sarah, with a tiny smile, and sauntered along the corridor to the exit.
Both Spike and Lynda stared after her. As the door clicked shut, Lynda turned to him.
"Do you think she suspected anything?" she said, voice lowered.
Spike shrugged, and looked back again at the now-shut door to the building.
"Maybe…" he said.
"Damn!" said Lynda, and stamped her foot. Her curls tossed in annoyance.
Spike considered briefly, and decided that there was no harm in trying to draw her back in so that they could finish what they'd started. He stuck his hand out towards her.
"Lynda, I…"
At that instant, the distinctive sound of the newsroom telephone cut across the building. Lynda started.
"That's probably Mr Kerr. I've got to go."
"Lynda," said Spike, feeling a little uncharacteristically desperate, but determined that they couldn't leave things like this. His hand caught hers as she reached the double doors into the newsroom.
"What?" she said, looking a little torn between coming back to him, and racing off to answer Mr Kerr's summons.
"Meet me," Spike said, sounding to his own ears like he was pleading. "Round the back of Block C at school? You know, by the Home Ec rooms? Tomorrow at morning break? Please?"
Lynda looked at him for a beat, and Spike tried not to look as desperate as he was feeling.
"Ok," she said, and gave him a tiny smile. Then pushed the door open and strode away into the tumult of the newsroom, where several voices could instantly be heard to say "Lynda, I…" as she progressed across the room.
Spike turned and sagged against the wall behind him. He flipped his sunglasses back down to his nose, and folded his arms.
Better. Much better – if you considered the pencil up the nose on Monday morning as a low point. But still not quite right enough for him.
Still, tomorrow morning, round the back of Block C – a place which had never failed with girls in the past – he'd make it right enough. Definitely.