“Correct. And you are?”

“Mr. Timberlake.”

I took another bite of the sandwich, nearly moaning. When was the last time I’d eaten? Probably this morning, before I left the house for my job interview.

“You’re getting on my nerves, Mr. Timberlake. And I thought it was ‘Will Power’?”

“Cry me a river, baby. I’m Célian.” He offered me his hand.

His poise unnerved and fascinated me at the same time. He was carved like a god but looked vital and warm to the touch like a mortal. It clouded my judgment, messed with my senses, and made my stomach feel like hot tongues of lust licked it from within.

“Judith, but everyone calls me Jude.”

“I take it you’re a Beatles fan.”

“Presumptuous. Your list of negative traits is never-ending.”

“Not the only long thing about me. Eat, Judith.”

“Jude.”

“I’m not everyone.” He threw an impatient smile my way, looking like he was over our conversation.

Bossy bastard. I took another bite. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

I was pretty sure I was lying, but I was too emotionally exhausted to deny myself things tonight.

He leaned toward me, entering my personal space the way Napoleon blazed into Moscow, with the pride and discretion of a pagan warrior. He brushed his thumb along the column of my throat. A simple touch, and my entire body broke out in violent goosebumps. It was the combination of his feral, male ruggedness, his accent, and his sharp everything else—suit, scent, and features.

I was helpless.

I wanted to be helpless.

“The heart is a lonely hunter.” But my body needed company tonight.

He leaned forward, his lips close to my ear, and whispered, “Oh, but this does.”

“You’re not my type.” I grinned into the rest of the whiskey I downed.

“I’m everyone’s type,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I’ll make it good for you.”

“You don’t know what I like,” I shot back. Ping-ponging with him was fun. He was curt, sharp, and unaffected, but oddly, I didn’t find him rude.

“Bet you all the cash I have on me that I do.”

This is interesting.

“What if I fake it every time I have an orgasm and act like I don’t?” I tucked my iPod and earbuds into my bag. This conversation couldn’t possibly be weirder. He smiled a smile I’d never seen on a human face before—so predatory my insides clenched on nothing, my panties dampening between my thighs.

“Clearly you’ve never had a real orgasm. When I make you come, you’ll be lucky to keep your fucking kneecaps from snapping.”

“Self-endorsem—”

“Save me the sass, Spears.”