Pleasures with Rough Strife by JL Merrow Read Free Book Online Page B

fond, mocking way of his. His heart singing, Philip renewed the kiss, but lips, he found, were not enough. He needed to taste Danny all over, to know him intimately. To feel him, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. Angrily he tore at his clothing, stubborn fingers refusing to work as directed to free him of these wretched encumbrances.
    “Shh,” Danny breathed, his hands and voice once more working their soothing magic. “Let me.”
    He made short work of Philip’s clothing, casting it carelessly to the floor. Philip felt he wouldn’t have cared had it been thrown into the fire. Danny’s own pajamas were easily pushed aside, and Philip almost wept as their lengths touched at last.
    “Gently, now,” Danny calmed him. As his capable, work-roughened hand closed about them both, Philip knew he wouldn’t last long, and he almost wept again. “World enough, and time,” the voice in his head seemed to say, except that now it sounded more like Danny’s country tones than Robert’s Eton drawl. As Danny’s hand started to move, it was almost too much—and then it was too much, and Philip felt himself pulse out a climax so strong he thought for a moment he could not survive it. But Danny was convulsing too, a hoarse groan escaping him, so Philip thought he might hang on to this life for Danny’s sake.
    Philip collapsed, panting, remembering at the last moment to fall to Danny’s side instead of upon his broad chest where he really wanted to be.
    “Bloody hell, that’s buggered my ribs good and proper,” Danny groaned, but there was a smile upon his lips when Philip looked up, concerned.
    Shyly, he raised himself upon his elbow so that he might kiss the offending ribs better, as his mother had used to do for him as a child, when the only hurts were such as might be easily forgotten with a loving kiss. When he raised his head once more, there was a look of such tenderness on Danny’s face that Philip recoiled for a moment, confused as to what he might have done to earn it.
    “You’re a strange animal, Philip Luccombe,” Danny said, smiling fondly. “But I reckon I’ll keep you, all the same.”
    “Good,” Philip said drowsily, curling against Danny’s side. “I could use a new gamekeeper.”
     

     
    To his Coy Mistress
     
     
    Had we but world enough, and time,
    This coyness, lady, were no crime.
    We would sit down and think which way
    To walk, and pass our long love’s day;
    Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
    Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
    Of Humber would complain. I would
    Love you ten years before the Flood;
    And you should, if you please, refuse
    Till the conversion of the Jews.
    My vegetable love should grow
    Vaster than empires, and more slow.
    An hundred years should go to praise
    Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
    Two hundred to adore each breast,
    But thirty thousand to the rest;
    An age at least to every part,
    And the last age should show your heart.
    For, lady, you deserve this state,
    Nor would I love at lower rate.
     
    But at my back I always hear
    Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
    And yonder all before us lie
    Deserts of vast eternity.
    Thy beauty shall no more be found,
    Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
    My echoing song; then worms shall try
    That long preserv’d virginity,
    And your quaint honour turn to dust,
    And into ashes all my lust.
    The grave’s a fine and private place,
    But none I think do there embrace.
     
    Now therefore, while the youthful hue
    Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
    And while thy willing soul transpires
    At every pore with instant fires,
    Now let us sport us while we may;
    And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
    Rather at once our time devour,
    Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power.
    Let us roll all our strength, and all
    Our sweetness, up into one ball;
    And tear our pleasures with rough strife
    Thorough the iron gates of life.
    Thus, though we cannot make our sun
    Stand still, yet we will make him run.
     
    by Andrew Marvell
    Marvell,