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Chances Are - Six

Updated: Nov 8, 2022


Morvan turned around. The kilted man was half-jogging, half-hopping after her down the moonlit country lane, having taken off one of his shoes. Morvan rolled her eyes.

'Please don't tell me you're planning to give me your shoes and some kind of misguided and frankly ridiculous attempt at chivalry. It would result only in both of us having buggered feet instead of one of us.'

'No, I wasn't.'


'You should wear my socks. They are these big thick kilty ones so will give you some protection. My shoes would just fall off you anyway.'

'Yes, they would.' He did have awfully big feet, Morvan thought with a suspiciously familiar flutter. 'It will be uncomfortable wearing daft kilty shoes with no socks.'

'Aye, but how else can I be ridiculous and chivalrous,' he said gruffly. 'Give me your foot.'

Firmly banishing visions of Cinderella from her mind, Morvan obediently lifted her foot. He knelt before her, bunched up his sock and gently rolled it up her calf. She steadied herself against his firm shoulder, and his fingers lightly brushed her skin, sending mini shockwaves fizzing through her.

Morvan's breath caught in her throat. He was handsome in an awkward, nerdy way, yet, even so, she was taken aback by her reaction. A white-hot vision of his head buried between her thighs zapped through her mind and her fanny did cartwheels. Forcing herself to take a steading breath, she switched feet as he rolled up the other sock, then wobbled, grabbing for his shoulder a second too late. He reached for her waist as she tipped forward and knocked them both onto a crumpled heap on the tarmac.

'Sorry,' she muttered, cells sparkling with his nearness. He smelled clean. Soap, and just a hint of something musky and masculine. 'Looks like I've fallen for you.'

'Ahh,' he chuckled awkwardly. She could see the heat rising up his neck in the moonlight as he cleared his throat and stared at the road as though it fascinated him.

'Sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.'

'Not at all.' He looked up to meet her gaze, and the eye contact was electric. 'I don't feel uncomfortable,' he added softly, a slight frown playing on his face as though he were surprised.

Morgan shifted onto her knees and leaned forward slowly. The man froze, watching her with something almost like awe. Centimetres from his lips, she hesitated. He drew forward to close the gap between them, kissing her with a firmness that took her breath away.

His lips were warm, the kiss slow. Morvan melted into him as he wrapped a strong arm around her waist and pulled her close until she straddled his thigh. She gasped as he cupped her face with his other hand, strong fingers sinking into her hair. Morvan opened her mouth and tasted his lips, then heard him groan as his tongue found hers.

His kilt rolled up, and Morvan shifted so her skirts fell away. The shock of thigh meeting thigh made them both gasp, then chuckle softly as a kiss deepened. Morvan held his face with both hands, desperate to draw him ever closer, an aching need for more pooling in her stomach.


They sprang apart to find a black cab rumbling a metre or two away. The driver, ruddy-faced with a thick shock of white hair, grinned cheerfully at them. 'Don't want to interrupt,' he said pointedly.

'Nah, you're all right.' Morvan grinned, though her voice was a bit more shrill than was cool. 'We were just getting going.'

Morvan could hear Kilty Man take a few deep breaths as he tried to rearrange his sporran over his erection.

The driver nodded at the empty station. 'Yous wanting the train for Glasgow? It's gone.'

'Is that right?' Morgan deadpanned. 'Aye, we do need to get to Glasgow. How much?'

The taxi driver shifted and narrowed his eyes as he stared up the lane as though contemplating the distance.

'Hunner quid,' he said finally.

‘Fuck off,’ Morvan spluttered.

'Hundred quid is fine, thank you.' Having apparently negotiated his willy into submission, Kilty Man got to his feet and opened the cab door. 'I'll pay,' he said firmly. 'Where do you need to get to?'

'Southside, and I'll get half, thank you very much. But not half of a hundred pounds, that's ridiculous.'

'You never heard the phrase beggars can't be choosers?' Kilty Man gestured for Morvan to get into the cab. 'I'd rather get home than have principles.' With that, he clambered into the cab and Morvan could either follow him or face the jaggy, pitch dark lane alone.

'You need to take the Erskine Bridge.' Morvan had to bunch up the mad peach dress to clamber into the taxi without tripping herself. 'There are roadworks in Anniesland that —'

'I know where I'm going, hen,' the driver said, then took off at such speed that Morvan was flung back onto the seat.

Morvan felt the lightning bolt jolt through her before she knew why. She heard the man's sharp intake of breath and it dawned on her that she had sat on his hand. Now, Morvan had a choice. She could apologise profusely and move. Or —

Kilty Man was staring intently at the glass screen separating them from the driver, his handsome profile carefully arranged into a blank expression. The tightness in his jaw, as though it were all he could do to hold himself together — not to mention the sporran sitting at half mast — indicated that he was far from opposed to their predicament. Morgan nudged him in the ribs and raised a questioning eyebrow.

The force of the effect she was having on him sent a flash of thrill through Morvan as he met her eyes and gave a brief, jerky nod. She shifted a little to peel the last layer or two of tulle out the way and pressed herself into the warmth of his hand. The sporran toppled off its not insubstantial perch with a soft jangle, and Morvan sniggered.

He moved his index finger against the damp silk of her underwear and it was all she could do not to jolt as though electrified. Her breath caught in her throat as he began to trace soft, maddeningly slow circles. Morvan stared out the window, desperately trying to keep her expression neutral as the circles got smaller and firmer and more delicious.

She took his other hand and he ran his thumb back and forth across her palm in an impressive show of dexterity.

'Can you pat your head and rub your tummy?' Morvan whispered.


'The way you're —' His finger brushed over her clit, and her words were lost in her sharp gasp.

'The way I'm what?' Humour danced in his voice as again she tried to answer, and he pressed a tiny bit more firmly.

'You must be good at that operation game,' she breathed through gritted teeth.

As the cab turned onto the Erskine Bridge, his laughter was swallowed by a soft groan as he slid the silk aside and was met by slick, warm, wetness. Morvan nuzzled his shoulder to smother a scream as his thumb slipped inside her, massaging, teasing, while his finger continued its increasingly firm circles. Sweet, aching pressure built in her as the motorway lights danced and blurred.

Morvan turned her face up to his, and he leaned down to softly peck her on the lips. The contrast between the chasteness of the kiss and the fact his thumb was deep inside her was hypnotising. He held her chin lightly with his other hand, his eyes a molten pool of desire as exquisite release washed over her. Morvan's body convulsed and twitched and relaxed, a silent, suppressed scream shuddering through her.

'Thank you very much,' she whispered when the heat and bliss finally drained enough to catch her breath.

Kilty Man cleared his throat with a soft chuckle. 'You're very welcome,' he muttered.

With an extremely satisfied yawn, Morvan snuggled into his shoulder and felt him plant a soft kiss on her hair. Oh shit, she thought. I'm in trouble.

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