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Just then, Esme entered the living room. “I’m…sorry to interrupt. Spencer, I’ve just decided that since ‘something more important’ came up, I’ll just take Ace to the pool myself.” The annoyance in her voice was purposeful.
“Ok.” Spencer said, dismissively, not taking his eyes off Trina, who was trying her best to remain calm. Esme had a knack for interrupting every intimate moment Trina and Spencer had, as if she had been gifted with some special radar.
Struggling to the door, juggling Ace, his bag and the door handle, Esme rolled her eyes and huffed. “Spencer, a little help?”
Spencer shot Trina a quick wink and a smile and walked over to open the door. Kissing Ace on his head, he said “See you later, buddy. Have fun at the pool. Be safe.”
Esme shot him a look, half-expecting that Spencer would object to her leaving alone with Ace or else volunteer to tag along. Even if Trina was there. Instead, he held the door open, waited for Esme to step through, and locked it behind her.
“I am so sorry, Trina. You were saying?” He walked towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her to him.
“Umm, I wasn’t saying anything.” She smiled wide and lifted herself to his lips. She missed this. She needed this. His hands on her. His lips on her. For months, there had been no reprieve for her from tragedy. She tried to be strong, but even the strong need someone to lean on sometimes and Spencer had offered his shoulder and his ear. And now, alone for the first time in months, no risk of death and world destruction imminent, Trina hoped Spencer would offer other things. She reached under the hem of his shirt and clawed her fingers up his bare chest. He didn’t stop her. She continued, sliding the shirt over his head and tossing it to the couch.
Spencer held her cheek in his hand and looked at her. Her eyes, big and brown and sure. His head swum, but his body was all heat. He grew harder. Took her bottom lip between his. Met his tongue with hers. Let out a soft moan as he felt her tug at his waistband. This was happening. There was nothing—there was no one to stop it.
He broke from their kiss. “Are you sure?”
Trina reached up and caressed his cheek. “I’m sure,” she said.
Spencer took her hand and walked her upstairs to his bedroom.
Trina’s pause once inside sent a shiver of uncertainty through Spencer’s brain.
“What’s wrong?” He asked nervously.
“Nothing,” Trina said with a sly smile. “It’s my first time in your bedroom.”
“What do you think?”
“Less…ostentatious than I imagined,” she admitted.
“Well, you certainly class the place up.” He pulled her into an embrace.
Trina closed her eyes as he held her. She listened to his quickening heartbeat; felt its strength against her temple.
“Thank you,” Spencer said quietly.
She pulled away to look at him. “For what?”
“For what you said about me being your strength. It feels good to be needed.”
“You know what else?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t only need you, Spencer. I want you.” Trina took a step away and untied the back of her dress.
Spencer’s eyes widened and he exhaled deeply. He was already coming undone at the sight of her; he wasn’t sure if he could handle much more. But, God, if he didn’t want to try.
In an instant he was toe to toe with her, his fingers blindly traveling down the length of her body. Beneath the skirt of her dress, he traced the hem of panties, across the waistline, down the backside and meeting in the middle, which was wet to the touch. Trina sucked in her breath and leaned herself into his touch. He lifted the elastic and swept her panties to one side, exposing her soft, warm, wet flesh.
Trina’s body felt electric. She moved against his finger, back, forth, up, down, around in a circle—any which way she needed to to experience the full extent of Spencer’s efforts.
He smiled, clearly enjoying the look of pleasure, of utter surrender on her face. His other hand moved up to grip her neck. She tilted her head back to let him have it. He took her chin, her lips softly between his teeth. She writhed and rode the rhythm of his finger until she could no longer contain it and lost herself all over him, her throaty yelp bouncing off the walls of his bedroom.
Spencer laughed, embarrassed but a little bit proud that he had made her make that sound. As loud as it was, he was glad no one was home.
Spencer walked Trina backwards towards his bed and lifted her onto it, pausing to admire her. Pausing to read her, as if he expected to see a question in her eyes or hear an objection from her lips. There was none. Spencer realized that the doubts were all his, always had been. Trina was a woman who knew her own mind and spoke it–it’s what he loved most about her. He aspired to her level of self-awareness. Self-assurance. But in this, he was still afraid. That she would have regrets. That the reality of him with her would fall short of the fantasy, and the memory of them together would be one she spent her lifetime trying to erase.
“Spencer?” Trina called him out of his thoughts, looking up at him with concern. And, like a telepath, silently and effortlessly reading his mind, she answered the question that he had not asked. “I’m right here…right now…because this is where I want to be…with you. With you.” She tapped his chin with her finger for emphasis.
“Uh, I don’t have—“ Spencer began.
Trina dug through her purse, which was still, somehow, clinging to her shoulder and pulled out a condom. “What’s the Boy Scouts motto?”
Spencer took the condom from her and planted a kiss on her lips. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a Boy Scout,” he said, tackling her down in the bed. They fell into laughter before Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed, his mouth tightened and his voice lowered to a husky whisper. He swept Trina’s hair away, resting his hand on her forehead and staring deep into her eyes. “What would I do without you?”
The intensity with which he stared at Trina as she laid there half-dressed, half-beneath him made her feel naked. It was a new feeling, unsettling only in its newness to her, but she was unafraid. Here was a man who had seen the inner recesses of her brain—the worry, doubt, loss, jealousy, rage—the dark, ugly, intimate places no one in her life had ever cared enough to explore with her. He took her hand and walked into that unknown, scared as he may have been; lost and helpless as he may have been, and they navigated their way through it. To here, where half-dressed, half-beneath him, she had never felt more safe.
Trina lifted onto her elbows so that her face matched the level of his. “Lucky for you,” she whispered, her cheek brushing past his until her lips were as close to his ear as they could be without touching him, “you never have to find out.”
Spencer’s eyes dissolved into the back of his head. He grabbed the nape of her neck and pulled her to him, breathing her in desperately, like she was the last gasp of air in a room starving for oxygen.
All claims to vanity faded. Their hands traced each other’s bodies, groped each other’s bodies with the opposite of grace. The picture they made was primal; the song, guttural. Two people who—for so long—had wanted so much of each other, that it was difficult, in the darkness of that room, with the enmeshment of their limbs, to decipher one from the other; him from her. And even when it was over, even when they parted, they didn’t part. They couldn’t. The memory of him conforming to her and her conforming to him, evident. Permanent.
Spencer lay bare and breathless in Trina’s arms, sweat drying from their skin, sweetness dripping from their mouths. She stared at the ceiling, the fan whirling overhead, listening to his breathing soften, counting his slowing respirations, the minutes tricking down until reality’s uninvited but inevitable return.
It wouldn’t always be like this. Moments that needed to be secreted and stolen because no one in Port Charles—hell, maybe even the whole world—wanted them together. Wanted him to love her out loud, or her to reciprocate. Believed that he was worthy of love, or that she was. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter the fits and starts, the constant interruptions, the shifting gears. It didn’t matter the disapproving mothers, the disappearing fathers, or the jealous ex or anyone cheering them on. What mattered was that they had spent many months in the telling of their love story, and there was still story left to be told. Love was a force like gravity. It was powerful. It brought order to things; grounded them. And, love—their love—like gravity, would always, eventually, win out. It had to, because the universe made no sense any other way.