A/N An old friend of my slowly returning to the fangirl lifestyle wrote this for me because of my request for kilted silver fox smut. I really do have the best friends in the world, even when they wish to stay anonymous.
She always wondered what Scottish men wore under their kilts. And as she surveyed the many men in the dimly lit pub, she found the odds were in her favor. A stag party there, a dodgy one right there, and a group of decades old regulars just over there, all parted to reveal him.
His grey eyes glistened like his hair in the autumn colored room. His linen shirt had untucked from the striking green plaid. A span of tan knee peeked out from the hem as she traced the line of his body down to his leather boots.
She blushed. Her breath caught. Her teeth snagged her bottom lip as her hand gripped her glass tighter. Man, oh, man. Her eyes glanced back toward his and locked on for dear life as he stepped toward her. Heart, pounding. Ears, flooded. Body, burning.
Amidst conversations of “haven’t seen you around here before” and “just seeing the sights,” the local whiskey poured, endlessly, as they drew closer, slowly, and the lights dimmed, ever so slightly. When last call rang out, so did the request, “come home with me,” and her response “I shouldn’t,” but, with a grin, she did.
She found out that Scottish men with tan knees have matching tan hands that deftly maneuver a zip on a dress before the door of the house is fully shut. She found that as those suntanned hands slide the dress to the floor, perfectly pillowed lips trace the map of her face- the reading wrinkles by her eyes, the laughter lines of her currently gasping mouth- before the hands settle on her hips and the lips settle on hers. Her hands, nowhere near as tan but no less skilled, untuck the rest of the linen shirt. She smirks as she rips it free from him. His responding nip and knee thrust between hers melts her body against his.