It is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that they have come to this place in secret.
His lips are smooth and silky against her own; just harsh enough to goad the rising terror in Sakura without actually making her scream. He is hard against her inner thigh, and the very thought sends trills of pleasure down her spine.
The gratifying sensations are interrupted, momentarily, by a nagging doubt in the back of her mind. He wants her now, yes. But who is to say he won't kill her after this night (or the next, or the next), when he no longer has need of her? This clan-killer, this mass murderer; who is to say that he would hesitate to kill a woman who is only connected to him by the thrill of skin on skin, breath mingling with breath?
Then again, she hasn't given him a reason to kill her, and Itachi does nothing without a specific purpose. He is methodical in almost every sense of the word.
But this, the exception– this is not methodical at all. Sakura tries fruitlessly to bite back her rising urgent need, and all the thoughts that come wildly with it.
Why does he want her? Why are his fingers everywhere at once and his lips so desperate? As he presses into her body to deliver the final thrust, a thought strikes.
It must be horrible to have a lover who is afraid to look in your eyes.
As it ends, as the tides ebb, Sakura's green orbs embrace the swirling sharingan and she feels no fear. Only twisted, terrible pain.
Not the first time, not the last. . .
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A/N: I'm not too sure about that one. It was. . . odd. I may go back and add more; maybe something from Itachi's perspective.