Disclaimer : Characters are mostly not mine. Ideas are. Don't sue, don't steal, and all is gravy! :) This is a bit that came to me out of the blue, and forced me, at gunpoint, to write it. I kinda like it. Review! Let me know...should I continue, or leave this as a vignette?

"There's something in your eyes that makes me want to lose myself in your arms."

He knew all too well that feeling.

When he looked into her eyes, so bright, so alive, he wanted nothing more than to snake his arms around her waist, and pull her close. Just to be near her, to breathe in her scent, to touch her hair. Maybe, just maybe, if he was feeling particularly courageous that day, he would trace his fingers along her cheek, stare deep down into those eyes, and pull her in, kiss her lips gently, passionately. Just as he loved her, with all of his being.

So why, of all things, was he here?

The bedroom was hot, stuffy, and dark. Too dark to see much, unless you got near the window, and the moonlight gave it's light to the scene.

He purposely stayed away from the window, away from the light, moving her instead against the opposite wall.

She was a pretty girl, and she knew it. Long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a killer figure. She was everything every guy could possibly want.

But she wasn't her. Wasn't what he wanted.

So why of all people, was he with her?

Her hands gripped his waist tightly as he pressed her none too gently against the bedroom wall, his lips crushing hers, her tongue seeking his, hands roaming places he shouldn't want to touch.

She lifts his shirt over his head, and he returns the favor, her skin heated against his bare chest, and he doesn't need moonlight to tell that she's not wearing anything beneath that discarded shirt.

She pushes off the wall, and somehow manages to push him toward the bed. Somehow, he doesn't resist the sensation as he falls backwards onto someone else's sheets. Doesn't resist as she straddles him at the waist and runs her hands up his chest before leaning her body over his.

His hands go to her waist, fingers through her belt loops as she kisses a trail from his neck to his ear, and whispers, "I want you."

He doesn't want this girl. He wants his girl.

So why does he find himself turning the tables, flipping her onto her back, straddling her, kissing her?

His hands move from her waist to her chest, and his lips seek hers in a searing kiss. He hears her moan, and is aware that it isn't the voice he wants to hear. He moves one hand to the waistband of her jeans, undoing the button, dragging the zipper down, feeling her hands do the same, fumbling in the darkness.

This isn't him, but he doesn't stop.

It isn't her, but he doesn't stop.

He wishes he had drank some of the liquor his friends had supplied. Wishes his head wasn't so clear, his thoughts so precise, he so acutely aware of exactly who this girl was and wasn't. Wishes he could blame the alcohol, write it off as clouded judgment, forget it ever happened at all, or God, stop it all together.

So why, why doesn't he stop?

Why does she have to moan like that, like this is just what she wanted, like he is the man of her dreams when they both know he is not? Why doesn't he resist her wandering hands, her tongue, her body?

Why isn't he enjoying this?

Afterwards, lying in someone else's bed in someone else's house, with someone else's girl, he shuts his eyes and tries to forget.

Afterwards, she turns to him, and rests her head on his chest, stroking his arm, and smiling.

"Was it good for you, baby?" she murmurs in what she thinks is a sultry, can't-resist-me tone.

In the moonlight, he can see her face, see who she isn't, and he wants to cry.

He responds with a kiss, because he can't trust his voice not to break.

Her eyes are brown, and half-lidded, because she thinks it makes her look sexy. He wanted nothing more than to push her away, get out of her arms, get out of that house, away from that girl who is not his girl.

"I love you," she whispers into his ear.

You don't even know me, he wants to say.

"I love you, too," he says quietly, hating himself with every fiber of his being.

Travis Strong hated liars.