Right Kind Of Wrong
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto just the plot to my story
Type: One-shot
The second he caught her eye she knew he was trouble. That predatory look in his obsidian eyes left her body numb.
His mouth was twisted in that ever present smirk of his that seem to be the cause of all these swooning women around her. But not her, oh no not her and he noticed, the first time he laid eyes on her he could tell that she wasn't like any of the other woman within the palace walls.
He stalked towards, like a predator would its prey. She tried to make her escape through the crowd but she merely wasn't fast enough as her foot caught on her gown. And down she went, straight into his arms. Those lean muscular arms. Oh how they made her shiver with the thought of what they could do. His hands were resting ever so gently on her hips. Burning holes through her dress as the heat radiated against her skin like fire. They stood there for what seemed like forever, time frozen in place as the electricity fizzled through out the air around them. He smelled heavenly, a sinfully divine example of masculinity.
Warm. Strong. Inviting. All things strictly male.
But this was wrong on so many levels. He was the prince amd here she was but merely a peasant in a fancy gown. She hardly recognised herself in the mirror. Her grandfather the caretaker of the castle grounds was invited as well. The prince was of age. He needed to find a suitable bride who had his father's approval before he could become king and his father could retire peacefully. The prince had always been fond of her, since they were children. Seeking her out to play and as his lessons got more and he made new friends and school came into picture, little Sakura began to fade from his mind completely. Nothing but a distant memory of a bittersweet childhood.
He eventually went off to school overseas coming back only for the more important holidays, like Christmas. However Sakura was never there when he came home and he never bothered to seek her out either.
And now here she was at the beautiful age of nineteen, a blossom to behold, in his arms. Her viridian orbs looked so conflicted, like she didn't know whether to cry right now or make another break for it. Strangely enough, or not so, he didn't recognise her.
"May I have this dance Milady?" He asked, his voice as smooth as velvet. She wanted to respond but to no vail, her voice felt stuck in her throat. So she just nodded. This all felt so right, yet it was so wrong.
He was after all her right kind of wrong.
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