*closes her arms around your neck in a real embrace, the brush dangling from her hand, forgotten* *hms under her breath* Oh... well, you would wrinkle the fabric terribly, anyway...
*chooses not to reply straightaway, instead burying her face in your hair, inhaling the scent (masculine and windswept and, to her surprise, unmistakeably you)* *distantly wonders if you will hear an answer in a non sequitur:* I do think I must withdraw my offer. *draws back enough to graze her lips over the corner of your mouth, almost tenderly* I do not want to marry you, Tyelcormo.