The Swailing

Optima: Listless

Logan kisses me like he is being graded on it and, unfortunately for both of us, he is dangerously close to failing. It's like he's following very specific instructions: head tilted just so, careful amount of pressure, mouth opening a tiny bit and then closing almost rhythmically against mine like a gasping fish out of water. He rubs my arms lightly, not gripping me in abandon but just stroking up and down, up and down until his touch feels like sandpaper on my skin.

It's not really working for me.

I mean, he's not a horrible kisser. Not that I have anything to compare him to, exactly, but his breath is fresh. He doesn't slobber on me or shove his tongue in my mouth like I've heard some teenagers do, despite our sovereign's strict bodily fluids regulations. He's very ... tidy. But he's also way too cautious and tentative. And not a nervous tentative. More of an uncomfortable tentative. His kissing lacks authenticity, spontaneity, passion ... any spark that could easily ignite the always smoldering knot in my belly.

Honestly, it wouldn't take much. A whisper in my ear. A touch that feels less like a medical exam by a polite doctor. Any sign that he is even remotely turned on by me. But still ... I guess wouldn't fail him. That would be harsh. His kissing just reminds me of a math problem where he understands the concept, has shown all his work, but somehow in the end still gets the wrong answer. He's missed some crucial step and doesn't even know it.

I don't know the right answer any more than he does, but my instinct tells me to touch him, and not in the hesitant way he is touching me. I slip my hands under the edge of his t-shirt and press them flat against his torso. My thumbs stroke against his smooth, warm skin and his muscles tighten under my fingers, like a twitch.

Or ... maybe more of a flinch...

But then I feel the quick intake of his breath. Look at that! Maybe he's not such a robot after all. Maybe I'm doing something right. I stroke his skin again, but then Logan grabs my wrists and efficiently removes my hands from his body.

"Ember."

I am not discouraged. This is how it goes with us.

"Hmmm?" I lean closer and breathe against his neck. I don't fool myself into thinking I have any clue what boys like. I'm certainly no better a student than Logan is, in this or anything else. But he smells pretty good and I wouldn't mind feeling his breath against my skin. I certainly wouldn't mind if he tried. But he doesn't try, and he's clearly not a fan of my clumsy attempt because he shrugs his shoulder and I am forced to abandon the patch of smooth skin that smells vaguely herby.

"Stop."

I should stop. We've been taught that when someone wants you to stop doing something, for their safety or for yours, you stop. No means no. And yet it's not like me to give up on anything that easily. I press a light kiss against his jaw.

"You want me to stop?" I whisper, giving him a chance to change his mind. I try to make my voice enticing, but I think I end up sounding ridiculous. I'm a sexually clueless 17-year-old girl trying to get her boyfriend to kiss her with some feeling. It really shouldn't be this hard, should it?

Logan takes me by the shoulders, gently because that's how he does everything, and kind of ... arranges me farther away from him. Like he's centering a vase of flowers on a table.

"You're impossible, you know that?" He holds me at arms' length, like I'm a baby who might spit up on him. His voice is teasing but there's truth in his comment. I am impossible. My dad tells me all the time how stubborn I am, like a dog with a bone. When I want something I rarely give up, whether it's a starting spot on the volleyball team or a new pair of shoes before my old ones are worn out enough to recycle. My name suits me, I suppose – always burning for something.