Page 150 of Lorenzo

"You know," he says, breaking the silence. "I wouldn't have thought that you were a coward."

I stiffen. "I am not a coward," I say, indignant. I try to push him away with no luck.

"Aren't you?" he asks, his hand tracing lazy circles on my back, as if I'm not trying to shove him right now. "You ran away after the first orgasm. And you're trying to run away now."

"I am not running away," I say, but it sounds weak even to me. "I'm... repositioning."

He laughs, and the vibrations of it travel through my entire body.

"Repositioning," he says. "Is that what we're calling it?" He tightens his arms around me, pressing me closer. "I like it. Repositioning after I make you come so hard you forget your own name."

"I did not forget my own name," I say, even though I totally did.

"You definitely forgot your own name," he says. "Let me remind you."

He brings his lips close to my ear and whispers, "Donatella."

"Stop." I swat him away and fight the shivers rolling down my spine. "I told you I don't like that."

"Liar," he says again.

"Stop calling me a liar," I warn.

"Stop lying," he says. "And tell me why you don't like your own name."

"Because I don't."

"Why?" he asks, and he's not going to let this go. I know him. And I know myself. I need to give him something, or he'll keep digging. And I can't have him digging. Not about this.

"It's... frilly," I say. "It sounds like a princess in a children's book. It's not me."

He's quiet for a moment, and I think he's actually going to accept that.

"You're wrong," he says, and I can't help but sigh. Of course he is.

"Oh, am I?" I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I thought I was the expert on me."

"You are," he says. "You're the expert on the you that you show the world. The private investigator. The woman who is strong and independent and doesn't need anyone. The woman who is, for all intents and purposes, invincible."

"So I am right," I say.

"It's the name you're wrong about," he says. "Donatella isn't frilly. It's strong. It's elegant. It's beautiful. It's the name of a woman who is not afraid to be herself. Who is not afraid to be vulnerable. It means, literally, a gift. It is perfect for you."

"More like a donation," I mutter. It's exactly how I felt when my mother died, and I was passed from one relative to another. Passed around like an old piece of luggage no one wanted. Unwanted. A donation.

But I don't tell him that.

"What?" he asks, and I realize I said it out loud.

"Nothing," I say, and I try to move away again.

He doesn't let me.

"Tell me," he says, his voice gentle. "What happened?"

"Why? So you can psychoanalyze me? Find out what makes me tick? So you can use it against me?"

I'm being cruel. I know it. But I can't help it. He's getting too close. He's seeing too much. And I don't like it.