A/N: Believe it or not, this is a Babe 'story'. This part is definitely dark and a completely different writing style than you are used to seeing from me. I would like to thank Katbaby for inspiring the concept, Vicki for inspiring the tone and style, and Dee for both encouraging me to post it, and for her help as a beta. I also want to thank my friends who have already read part I privately and gave me such positive feedback, I found the courage to post this.

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not making any money.

Warning: This is smut. I'd like to think of it as artistically introspective smut. (I'm creating a genre!) The man is Ranger. The woman is not Stephanie. She has no name because…to Ranger, she has no name.

Always in the Dark

It is always in the dark.

Something that used to be so habitual and easy has somehow turned to something shameful, complicated, clandestine and desperate. I was once a man with tremendous needs and I had every means accessible to me to fulfill those needs. Fucking was fucking. A perfect stranger, in the light, in the dark, in her car, up against an alley wall; it was so simple. It meant nothing more than feeling good, getting off.

But that was before her.

Even now as I stroke another's skin, smell another's scent, hear another's sighs, I cannot escape her. I try harder. The lights are off but maybe they should be on so I can see the difference and let go of this sick obsession, even if only for an hour.

I thread my fingers through her hair to anchor my mouth more firmly across hers as our tongues slide and glide against one another. I try not to think that the hair is too short, too smooth, that it feels wrong because my fingers keep slipping and sliding instead of becoming entangled and entrapped.

The kiss isn't the same. It amazes me that you don't experience the same kiss you have with one person when you kiss another. I kiss the same. At least I think I do. But it's not the same, I know. If it were the same I'd feel her heart, her soul, her lust. I'd feel her telling me things through the kiss that she would never have the courage to say aloud. But then I remind myself again that she is not who I am kissing now. All I can taste from this kiss is a hot greedy mouth and maybe some impatience.

I run my hand up from her knee to her thigh and acknowledge its silkiness and heat. My cock stirs. I make myself not compare it to long slender legs I have not had wrapped around me like this in years. I kiss her harder.

I yank her panties down as I mouth one voluptuous breast through her blouse, leaving it damp. I will her to react, to make some noise, like an animal in heat, but she is silent and only panting and sometimes whimpering but never moaning. I want her to moan. I want her to moan. I want her to moan.

But a voice inside my head tells me the moan wouldn't be the same.

She unbuttons her own blouse, unclasps her bra with shaky hands as I unbuckle my belt, unsnap my pants, release my cock. She tries to shove my pants down farther, shuck my shirt up but I grasp her hands easily and push her back down. I only need my cock. She only needs my cock. She doesn't need my skin, my soul.

I run my hand back up her thigh and over her heat. Her pussy is bare and slick and in another life, I would nearly come at the thought, the sensation. I would bury my face in her sex and lap and lave and suck. I'd fuck her with my fingers and feast. But I can't bring myself to taste another. I don't know if I'll ever be able to taste another.

I stroke a finger up and down her slit and swirl and circle around her clit. Her juices make the task effortless but I find myself longing for another's dark, tight curls, another's juices on my fingers, another's velvet heat clasping and sucking on my fingers. Her scent is clean but not the same. Not the same as that honeyed sweetness that begged me to bury my face and stay and stay and stay; to eat, to dine, to swallow and beg for more.

She lifts her hips restlessly and makes impatient noises as I roll a condom on my cock. I lower myself between her thighs and thrust myself inside her. I latch my mouth on a breast that is too full, a nipple too small.

I suck and fuck and though there are no lights, I clench my eyes shut tight and will myself to think of nothing but my cock and her pussy and her juices coating my balls. I want noise; I want to hear what she is feeling but all I can hear are her disjointed gasping, panting and our pelvises slapping together.

I might as well be jerking off.

I feel the tingling at the base of my spine that once would have told me to slow down, to make it last. Fuck. I have to make her come. I slide my hand between our groins and find her clit and rub and rub and rub.

We both explode.

I lay over her, still, as she catches her breath.

Somehow, it comes back to me to say the right things as I pull out of her, climb off of her. I make my way to the bathroom to flush the condom. I eye the shower with longing. Longing to remove her scent, her juices, her touch. I want to wash away the moment.

I feel a pang of remorse for the beautiful woman in the other room who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She is somebody's daughter, maybe somebody's sister; someday somebody's mother.

I've used her like my fist, like a whore just to slake my lust and anger of seeing another with her lover, their eyes only for each other.

I shut off the bathroom light and step into the bedroom to grab my gun belt and my keys. She is asleep and I'm grateful not to have to play out the next sorry scene. I can barely see her, but for a moment it's easy to imagine the sleeping form is someone else.

That it's her.

Because it is always in the dark.