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

7 - Cooking

Alison
***

That night I decided to cook for my flat mates to try and forget what had happened.

Professor Damon asked me not to talk about it, and I'd respect that. Even though he didn't deserve my secrecy after how terrible he made me feel, if I told my friends he had been extremely insensitive to me, they'd ask why, I'd say it was because of a painting, they'd ask why he cared about my painting, and then I wouldn't know how to answer, except perhaps he just wanted to humiliate me because he had some superiority complex.

But the way he spoke to me in his car told me that wasn't the reason.

Then what was it?

I got onions and garlic cloves from the pantry and chopped them, as well as green and red bell peppers. I stir fried them with salt and pepper and a drizzle of olive oil, as well as sone bacon cubes.

"Hm, smells good!" Cried Sammy from the living room. I loved making people happy with my food.

I wondered what Dr Damon would have for dinner that night.

Shut up Ali, just cook.

I chopped up some chicken and fried it with the veggies, letting it caramelize. While it cooked, I started on the batter for the fresh pasta, just flour and one egg.

I could feel the heat of his hand from where he had held me, on my left bicep, how his fingers lightly pressed into the fabric of my sweater, how his eyes had looked when he said he was sorry.

As I rolled the pasta and cut it into thin strips, a thought came to me. It was perfectly reasonable for a student to find their teacher attractive. There were plenty of songs and books and movies about that. I surely wasn't the first one. I wasn't acting out of the ordinary. I wouldn't even say I had a crush on him, because for me to have a crush on him he'd actually have to treat me right, which he didn't.

He hurt me and then tried to make up for it, nothing more.

Oh man, but did he flirt with me at the end? No, why would he do that? He had no reason to do that. I knew our interactions were a bit out of line, but I was confident neither of us was taking this beyond banter and getting on each other's nerves.

I put the pasta in boiling water with salt, bringing the stir-fry to a low heat.

I huffed in frustration. At least I'd have a whole week before I saw him next Monday.

I drained the water out of the pot and added a spoonful of butter to the fresh pasta. I dumped the stir-fry into the pot and mixed everything together. I gave it a little taste, adjusted the pepper, and brought the dish to the small living room table. The girl's eyes bulged when they saw it.

"She's and artist and she can cook! What other talents are you hiding from us?" Said Claudia, taking a big serving of my food. I did pride myself in my ability to cook. I loved helping my mum in the kitchen and she taught me everything I knew.

"My mum always tried to incorporate French flavors into her food. I guarantee you that every dish I'll ever make in this house will contain butter or my name isn't Alison Bardot!"

I sounded jovial and cheerful, but deep down all I could think about was him and I couldn't tell them anything.

***

The next morning, I had the useless Contemporary Art Thought and Practice course, and lo and behold, like I predicted, the syllabus was entirely composed of guest speakers talking about their most recent art projects. Maddie was also in this class, and she rolled her eyes at how pretentious this whole charade was.