Sakura had always thought to save herself for Sasuke: one day, he would look at her with love, and desire, and everything would be perfect. She had long ago memorized the shape of his hands: the breadth of his palms, the length of his fingers. She had touched herself, imagining Sasuke's nails dragging lightly across her nipples, his fingers pushing deep inside of her.
Sakura is a kunoichi. She is a weapon, and her body a tool.
Sasuke is lost to her, and Sakura has a mission.
She is on her knees, trying not to gag. He has been kind to her, but his cock is thick, heavy, and Sakura has not practiced this particular kunoichi skill before. Her jaw aches, and she does not like the taste of him, the smell of sex and sweat-damp skin. What she *likes* is of no importance here and now, so Sakura works her tongue against his cock, and does not rear back when his hips thrust forward in reaction.
He is breathing heavily, groaning curses and promises.
His hands tighten in Sakura's hair, to pull her forward and hold her still, and he comes.
Sakura rocks back on her heels, and wipes her wet mouth and chin clean with the back of her hand. She looks up at him from beneath demurely lowered lashes: his face is red, upper lip shining with sweat, and his cock hangs soft and damp from his open pants.
He won't fuck her tonight.
If Sakura is lucky, and if her target's tongue loosened well enough, he will be dead before he ever gets the chance.