Confined in his cabin, Sinbad wet the quill of his pen, and then placed it to the paper. After a moment, he scratched out a quick scrawl, so different then Proteus' cultured writing that rested beside his elbow.
It's funny. I know many people ravished by addiction. Starving themselves, selling themselves, losing themselves to their drug of choice. Never thought I would count myself among their ranks. Probably because I never tasted my drug. Never kissed sweet lips, or licked sweat from its quivering form as it writhed beneath me.
Sinbad grinned at what he had written. He could almost see Proteus blush as he read the last line, the uncomfortable shifting of legs that would follow that. If there was one thing he loved nearly as much as his prince, it was knowing he had the power to provoke him, though he was hundreds of miles of saltwater away.
That though he suffered from his addiction, that Proteus suffered from his just as much.
Though, he thought, with a quick look at the letter Proteus had written, certainly not more. Even just a glance at the words in Proteus careful, measured penmanship was enough to cause heat to flare within. He placed his quill back to the paper.
I do hope your father no longer reads your letters.