Page 33 of Trust Me

It’s my guilty pleasure, and the only morning during the week that I allow myself to rest and have a slower start to the day. On most days, I opt for an early morning workout, reading a few chapters of a book, or cleaning up the apartment.

Mornings have always been my favorites, as I’ve always liked the idea of getting important tasks done before the day even started. It makes me feel accomplished and sets me up for the day.

I spoon a mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into my mouth, loving the sugar-filled cereal that I treat myself to once a week.

Another thing I’ve treated myself to recently? Stroking my cock last night with Jasmine’s body invading my mind, her name a harsh breath off my lips.

It felt fucking wrong, but I couldn’t help myself after seeing her perfect body last night when she stood up in my hot tub.

Coming to thoughts of her was the only thing that finally allowed me to sleep after days of restless sleep. She’s been wreaking havoc in my head from the day she came here to sign the agreement in her little black sundress like the damn devil coming to torture me.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Jasmine walking right into the kitchen. She’s wearing tiny shorts that barely cover her perky ass, showing off her short, yet toned legs. Her oversized shirt covers anything else I’d like to see, and I thank God for it.

Because seeing her like that is already making me adjust myself in my gym shorts.

“Morning, roomie,” I call out, eyes fixed on the TV to tame my growing erection.

“Morning,” she rasps.

“You sleep okay?” I ask, turning the volume down with the remote beside me.

Jasmine opens the fridge and pulls out yogurt and berries. “I slept fine,” she says, but she’s not convincing enough.

“I slept like crap too. Thanks for asking,” I play along like she returned the kind gesture of asking how I slept last night.

She shoots me the finger while her other hand places blueberries into her bowl of yogurt.

A large smile dons my face. This fucking girl. No one else would ever dare do that to me.

She’s feisty and I like it more than I know I should.

It’s with a chuckle that she asks, “Do you want a yogurt parfait too?”

“Yes, please. See, those are manners and how one uses them.”

“I have manners and know how to use them,” she defends herself, making another bowl.

“Interesting because you haven’t used them with me,” I point out, sitting up on the couch.

“I do. I pay you rent when you don’t need it, I help take care of the cats, I clean and cook breakfast for you,” she points out, adding some granola to both bowls.

“It was you who insisted on paying me, remember?” I remind her because I never wanted her money. In fact, I planned on putting it in a separate account that I’ll give back to her once she moves out.

As soon as the thought comes, a sour feeling churns in my gut at the idea of her moving out. It hasn’t been long, but I’ve already grown accustomed to her being in my space.

Coming toward me on the couch, she passes me one of the bowls and I take it from her.

“That’s because I indeed have manners. I was taught that I need to be responsible. So this is me being responsible,” she says, sitting down a full seat away from me on the couch and crossing her legs underneath her.

She was raised very well. In the short time I’ve been around her, I’ve learned that she is responsible, smart, and a hard worker.

I dig into the yogurt, an appreciative moan getting stuck in my throat. “This is so good. Thank you. Is that maple syrup?”

“Yeah, I told you it’s my favorite. I put it on pretty much anything, so that’s why there’s a drizzle of it on top,” she explains, spooning some into her mouth.

My eyes are glued to the action, watching the way the silver slides between her full lips, her pink tongue poking out to lick the remaining yogurt off the spoon.

I cross my legs, knowing my erection is about to be on full display because my mind is now envisioning her doing that to something else.

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