Prompt #4: Face Down
Pairing: NaruSaku
Note: Rated M for sort-of lemon and lots and lots of infidelity, plus mentions of sasusaku.

She is face down on his bed, drowning in sensations and stifling her cries in mountains and mountains of white sheets. Their hands are entwined, one of his gripping both of hers hard above her head. Naruto presses against her from behind, and she arches into his touch. He laughs, low in his throat, and the sound draws another moan from her. His free hand wanders the hills and valleys of her skin, skimming across the paleness there, dancing playfully just above where she wants him to touch her the most. Each sweep of fingers brands more heat into her, and she thinks the same thing that she does every time: fidelity is overrated if before this, before him she'd been missing this all consuming warmth in her life. Sasuke is cool, Sasuke is cold, all his passion reserved for battle. In bed, in life he doesn't look to spill any excess. He sees his wife "just enough" ,and no more-they haven't shared a bed for a month now. She thinks that he might have his own whore, his own concubine, someone who didn't know his sordid history so it is someone who he is free to love.

She was bitter, at first. She wanted to wait for him by the door of their barely shared home and confront him with all his hypocritical lies.

Instead, Naruto had found her, and she…

Sakura admits it, it'd been out of spite that first time; she knows that he still loves her, or at least wants her, and that is more than she can say for her husband. So she cajoled and teased and seduced with the kind of practiced aplomb that only a few good, stiff cups of sake could produce. It'd been…it'd been more than she'd expected—more than what she thought she had always craved. And afterwards, when she lay panting, exhausted and sated and exhilarated on the couch (never her bed—that space shared so infrequently with another), Naruto had known. He'd rolled off the cushions and pulled his pants on with a single, unreadable glance at her uncovered body, and in that moment Sakura had felt shame.

But he'd come back to her, again and again and again, and together they'd christened innumerable places—both public and not—in Konoha with their frenzied couplings. After a while, after months of never seeing her husband, after rumors of the Uchiha scion's furtive trips to a civilian village made her straighten her back and pretend the nonexistence of pitying glances and whispered gossip—Sakura forgot how to be ashamed.

And even though she can deny it all she wants, she knows that things are changing. There is a new sort of urgency in the way he touches her now, in the way he digs his fingers into her skin, and the harsh grip of her hips as he enters her, a breath of air escaping in a hiss. Like every time is a first.

In the present, Naruto begins to move inside her, and Sakura's pushed deeper into the mattress, into the sheets. She feels like she is suffocating, and with every thrust he brings her closer to breaking the surface.

Her name leaves his lips in a rush of syllables and heat, over and over again, and the rawness of the sound nearly breaks her, nudges her over the edge. His fingers tighten over her skin, and tomorrow she knows she will find the imprints of his hands on her thighs, her arms. She doesn't bother healing them anymore.

His thrusts are quicker now, the movement growing erratic and frantic; abrupt, a slow draw out and then a quick slam in. Naruto growls and maybe he is impatient, because his fingers descend and only has to pass over where they're joined once, twice before she is coming undone, her scream lost into white sheets.

He collapses on top of her in the afterwards, and Sakura savors his weight pinning her to the bed. It proves that he is solid, that he is real and present and here. She loves that he knows she can take his bulk, and Sakura wonders if he realizes just how much of an anchor she considers him—how much she really needs him.

She thinks that every time they come together, every time he touches her they are rushing towards more than just completion or something as clinical as orgasm. Sakura can't name it, but it sits on the tip of her tongue and it tastes a bit like…change. It tastes like change and catalysts and a certain kind of mutual destruction.

One day, Sasuke will come home and find them, entwined together on the couch, or the rug, or against the wall, and Sakura looks forward to it.

a/n: And this is why I almost never write M rated fics.