The urge to play was too sweet on his tongue with his freedom before him. He was far from Amarantha's grasp, her dead and gone. He was far from his court, his lands would survive without him for a few days. So that twisting, wrenching desire in his gut to tease and play wriggled up his spine to his form and took hold.
One could not say he had restrained himself well, anyway.
Rhysand circled around Sookie in said play, though the vibe he gave off was not meant to be so menacing it was hard not to be. In his wake was a black and blue inky swirl and whorl in the air marking where he had been. Her whisper, her confession, stroked his pride and sang a siren's song to his ego.
"Please...Rhysand is fine. ...We're different but we don't have to let that become loneliness." The fae dare not touch her, merely circling once around from Sookie's left to right, hands still in his pockets and feet dancing over the grass like a wickedly smooth, dark orchestration. It was all in fun. Good-natured, harmless fun. The mark of another man wore heavily on the woman and he would not defile that.