Paint Me, Professor | Student-Professor Erotic Novel | 18+ | ✔️

6 - Wine

Christopher
***

What the fuck was wrong with me?

What the actual fuck was I doing?

It all started with a stupid joke about her name. A harmless joke to lighten the mood of that tense class.

I wasn't expecting the girl to bite back the way she did. I wasn't expecting her to reply with the exact same energy and not get instantly offended.

I wasn't expecting to like it so much.

I don't know how it got so out of control. The banter, the sarcasm, the rude remarks. All of it was inappropriate and we both knew it. Fuck, she even said it to my face when she was explaining to me why she had blurred lines in her painting.

Oh, and then there was the painting.

I purposefully left it in my office. I didn't want to bring it home that night because I knew I'd think of her and how much of an ass I was.

I guess I didn't need the painting to remind myself of that, unfortunately.

I parked my car in my garage. I checked the time as I took the elevator to the apartment. Almost 9 P.M. Just in time to cook something up and try to get some rest.

Alison Bardot was unlike any other student I had ever had. She saw past my strictness and saw that, in fact, I could take a joke or two. She was obstinate in her defiance and always wanted the upper hand. What other 21 year old would so boldly confront a faculty member the way she did? She was also a really good student on top of all that. Her intervention in class was excellent, but of course I couldn't tell her this. She'd only become more insufferable and cocky.

I unlocked the door of my apartment. The darkness and coziness of the burgundy walls greeted me and I felt like I could finally relax. I was finally in my safe space. I placed my blazer on the couch and made my way to the kitchen isle and poured myself a glass of wine.

My biggest mistake so far was telling her to come to my office to show me her painting. Why couldn't I have suggested she brought it on Monday morning to my lecture and show it to me after class? Why was I so curious to see a painting which I already suspected would be shitty anyway? Why couldn't I wait?

I took a big sip of wine as the answer started to take shape in my mind.

Her painting wasn't that shitty to be honest. It was fine for a student with her level of experience. When she told me about what the elements meant, I realized I had underestimated her. Even if she hadn't provided any insights into the meaning of her painting, I was still very harsh on her, disproportionately so.

I just wanted to test her, to see how far I could push my rudeness with her, to see if she'd fight back. She did cuss at me, so that was something.

I had only met the girl two days ago and I was already having spiralling thoughts about her.

I took another heavy sip of wine.

I cooked up a simple pasta and fried a chicken breast quickly. I wasn't the type of guy to put much effort into his food: if it filled me up, I was happy.

No matter what I did to try and keep my thoughts away from Alison, all I could think about was her.

Her slender neck, her short hair, her elegant hands, her brown eyes.

Another sip of wine. I poured more in the glass.

She included me in the painting and I didn't even recognize myself. It didn't even register that she had done it, only when she pointed it out, her words cutting like knives.

"The man in the portrait is just as dark as the man who inspired it."

Did she blur out the eyes because she lacked the ability to paint them or because she didn't know my eyes well enough to do them justice? How many times had she gone over that same area of the canvas, trying to get me right?

I wondered what she was thinking about at that moment, if she had told her flat mates everything that had happened.

I wasn't concerned about them spreading rumours that I had mistreated a student of mine. No, that wasn't my main concern. What worried me was that she'd tell them about the painting, the meeting in my office at night, the jokes we exchanged, the car ride.

Fuck, the car ride.

Another sip of wine.

I really hope it wasn't creepy offering to drive her home. It felt wrong to let her walk alone at night, her make-up smeared from her tears, her body cold from the wind.

Maybe I brought her to my car because I didn't want to say goodbye to her. Maybe I wanted to keep her warm because I had fought the urge to hug her when I apologised.

Wine. I needed more wine.

I walked to the bathroom, bringing my glass with me. I took a quick shower, taking a sip of wine every time her sweet face appeared across my mind.

I put on some gym shorts and a t-shirt and walked to my living room, turning on the TV. Maybe there was some football game airing, or even "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?". I loved those game shows. I always got the Art questions right.

Zapping was a dangerous game because it wasn't engaging enough to make me stop thinking of her.

Blurred lines.

More wine.

It was my fault. I was blurring the fucking lines.

I was making it confusing for her and myself. I was a fucking idiot.

Most Art students nowadays are all edgy and alternative. They think they're making a statement by wearing old clothes and calling them "vintage". Not her. She dresses nicely, she looks elegant.

I bet her body could make any ugly vintage outfit sexy.

Fuck. Wine wine wine.

She's your student for goodness's sake. Worse than that, she's barely an adult.

But she's French. In France you're considered an adult at 18, right?

This isn't France, Chris.

Wine. Wine would fix it.

I had blurred the lines too much and now I had to deal with the consequences: these tormenting thoughts.

I drank more wine until my head felt hazy and my eyes felt heavy.

No amount of wine was enough to suppress this one desire: I didn't want to fix the lines.

Let them blur.