Girl next door

You’ve pictured the girl next door naked. Never cracked the blinds, though—until now. Sophie Paris sits cross-legged on her rug, dress hiked, bare toes painted candy-pink. She lifts one foot to her mouth, kisses the arch, then slides her tongue between each toe. Suck. Pop. The slick sound fills the quiet room. She laughs, glances straight at you like she knows you’re there, and keeps going. She bends the other foot back, gives her heel a long, slow lick, then grinds her wet heel against her nipple. The dress slips off one shoulder. Sweat beads at her collarbone. She moans—so casual it almost sounds like a joke—and rolls onto her back, legs spread, soles facing the window. Her fingers slip between her thighs; she never breaks eye contact. Every soft, wet noise dares you to stay glued to the glass.