Sinbad would usually be relishing in feeling of the women surrounding him. The alcohol in his system was not doing what it was supposed to—not enough, at least—for he was thinking far too much.

Too much about you. He couldn't stop staring. He was drunk, of course. So. Very. Drunk. His thoughts were slurred, but they all surrounded you.

All of the women around him, giggling, pressing up against him, running their hands over his arms... He relished in it. Even now, he still enjoyed the attention, but he wanted your attention, above all. It should've been you, your arms around him, your hands on him.

Sinbad tipped his head back and downed another drink, ignoring the "oohs" and giggling of the women near him. This was a celebration party, but for what? He had forgotten. Maybe he was actually going overboard on drinking...

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Your name kept repeating in his head, and he took in a shaky breath. Couldn't you be with him, instead of these girls who didn't actually see him?

He needed another drink. He needed you.

Sinbad debated standing and making his way over to you, but he knew he'd trip. He'd stumble, some ladies would gasp and giggle as they caught him, feel him up as his clothing fell loose. He didn't want that.

Their hands and company would've typically eased him, something familiar, something he loved—the attention, the praise. But really, he just wanted it from you. These women knew the King, they knew his confident declarations, his lazy eccentric demeanor, and his striking looks. You knew his struggles, knew his voice when he whispered, devoid of lust.

You knew the books he read, the reason he took up fights, his political views, both the ones he declared, and the ones he thought secretly. The foods he found comfort in. How he fell asleep while working. If he snored or not—he did. You knew him.

Gods, he wanted you. He wanted to know everything about you. Sinbad tossed his head back, downing another shot glass.