18. Chapter Eighteen #3
But instead of getting off of me, as I wanted him to, he simply rolls slightly to the side and takes me with him, trapping me in his arms. My chest is pressed against his, and he is still inside me, and I am well and truly stuck.
I sigh. He is just as good at thinking ahead as I am, which is, frankly, annoying.
"You're not getting away that easily," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair.
"I wasn't trying to get away," I lie. "I'm just... hot."
"Liar," he says.
I want to argue, but he's right.
I want to tell him to let me go, but I don't really want him to. I like being held by him. I like the feel of his arms around me, the solid warmth of his body next to mine.
It's a problem. A big problem.
I'm not used to this. To wanting someone. To wanting to be close to them. To feeling this... contentment.
It's a dangerous, unfamiliar feeling, and I don't trust it.
And I don't trust him.
"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.
"No," he says, his voice still gentle. "So I can understand you."
"I don't need you to understand me," I say, and my voice breaks, and I hate myself for it. "I don't need you to fix me."
"I don't want to fix you, Donatella," he says. "I just want to be with you."
The words hang in the air between us, and they're so unexpected, so raw, that I don't know what to say.
I don't know how to respond.
So I don't.
I lie there, in his arms, and I don't say a word.
I can feel his heart beating against my chest. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest with every breath he takes.
And I can feel the walls I've so carefully built around my heart starting to crumble.
It's terrifying.
I've spent my entire life building these walls. I've spent my entire life making sure no one gets close enough to hurt me.
And now, in the space of a few hours, this man has not only managed to get past them, he's managed to demolish them.
I don't know what to do.
I've never been in this situation before. I've never been so... exposed.
And I don't like it.
"I'm tired," I say.
It's the truth. I am exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally. This whole day, this whole case, has been draining. And this... this thing with Lorenzo... It's taken what little energy I had left.
"Okay," he says, and he doesn't push. He doesn't ask any more questions. He just holds me.