Mon Cul, My Love

The taxi dropped her off at a stone house tucked between vineyards, the kind of postcard-perfect countryside scene that would've looked idyllic if Isla weren't exhausted, sweaty, and swearing under her breath.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, dragging her suitcase up the gravel path. The wheels caught in the stones and she kicked it, cursing louder. "Piece of shit bag."

The front door opened just as she bent down to wrestle it free. A man filled the doorway--broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair cut short, green eyes narrowing against the late sun. Tattoos spiraled down his forearm, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeve of a faded black shirt. A cigar smoldered between his fingers.

He didn't smile.

"Isla?" he asked, his accent thick, French rolling off his tongue in a way that made the single syllable sound like music.

She pushed her hair--black, messy from the flight--out of her face and squinted at him. "Yeah. That's me. You must be... Luc?"

He gave a short nod. His eyes flicked down, sweeping over her nose stud, the small silver ring in her left nostril, the septum hoop glinting when she exhaled. Her belly button bar peeked out when her tank top lifted as she yanked the suitcase again. His gaze snagged there for a fraction of a second before he stepped forward and took the handle from her.

"I take," he said simply, dragging the suitcase up as if it weighed nothing.

Isla bit her lip. The guy was older--definitely in his fifties--but not frail. No, he was solid, built like a bouncer or soldier, the kind of man who could probably crush someone without breaking a sweat. His forearm flexed as he carried her bag inside. The sleeve of tattoos caught the light: black ink of barbed wire, script she couldn't read, something that looked like a dagger.

Her curiosity spiked, irritation fading into intrigue.

Inside, the air smelled of smoke and cedar. Luc set her bag down near the staircase and gestured vaguely. "You... tired?"

"Jet-lagged to hell," she admitted, rolling her shoulders. Then, because silence made her itchy, she added: "So, what do you do? For work, I mean?"

He shrugged. "Security. Private."

"Mysterious," she muttered, raising an eyebrow. "Like... bodyguard mysterious? Or, like, ex--secret agent mysterious?"

He only smirked, lighting his cigar again. The green of his eyes seemed to catch the flame. "Mysterious," he echoed, smoke curling from his mouth.

God, his accent. She hated how it sent a shiver down her spine.

They moved into the kitchen, where half-empty bottles of red wine lined the counter. He pulled out a chair for her, the gesture oddly old-fashioned, before reaching for his glass. Beer bottles sat nearby, casual and unpretentious.

"You drink?" he asked.

"Vodka," she said immediately, dropping into the chair. "Shots, mostly. Wine makes me sleepy."

He huffed something that might've been amusement. "Of course."

"Of course, what?"

"Vodka girl," he said, sipping his wine.

Isla rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. "You don't even know me yet."

"I know enough." His gaze flicked to the barbell studs pressing faintly against her thin tank top, to the outline of her bra that did nothing to hide the size of her chest. Isla knew her tits were huge for her frame--perky, round, impossible to ignore. Most men ogled. Luc glanced once, then looked away, which was somehow worse.

She shifted, tugging her tank down. "You're judging."

"I see," he said simply. His accent made it sound like: I zee.

Isla scowled. "You smoke cigars, I smoke the occasional joint. Don't act like you're any better."

That made him raise a brow. "Weed?"

"Yeah." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, blue eyes daring him. "You know anyone who can hook me up while I'm here?"

The silence stretched. He studied her, the corner of his mouth twitching as if she'd amused him despite himself. Finally, he shook his head. "Non."

"Figures." Isla sat back, exhaling hard. "This is gonna be a long fucking semester."

He didn't reply, only reached for his cigar again.

Later, after he showed her to her room--a plain space with a wooden bed, a view of the vineyard out back--she flopped onto the mattress and groaned. Her tits bounced as she landed, and she muttered to herself, "Goddamn, what have I gotten myself into?"

She stared at the ceiling, replaying his face in her mind. The silver hoop glinted through his left nipple when he stretched at the doorway. The deep lines around his mouth, the way his forearms looked like steel cables under his tattoos. The smoke curled around him like he belonged to another era.

She should be annoyed. He was older, gruff, divorced--he'd even told her in passing, "Ex-wife, she sign for this... project. Before divorce. Now she is on boat, Espagne, new man. No children."

Not exactly warm and fuzzy.

And yet Isla's stomach twisted in a way she hated. She was too tired to unpack her suitcase, but not too tired to picture those green eyes looking at her too closely, that accent brushing against her ears like a secret.

"Fucking ridiculous," she muttered, rolling onto her stomach. Her belly button piercing pressed against the mattress, her thong strap peeking out above her shorts. She could already imagine sunbathing in the backyard, her tiny bikini top "accidentally" coming loose.

She cursed again into the pillow. "Shit. This is going to be trouble."

Outside, she heard him shut the back door, the faint strike of a lighter, and the drift of cigar smoke that curled through the night air.

And Isla, jet-lagged and cursing, couldn't stop herself from wondering what it would be like if that mysterious French bastard ever looked at her like she was more than just a student.