Girl Next Door’s Secret Channel — Bonus Chapter

Private Show — An exclusive bonus chapter
by Aurora North

An exclusive bonus chapter — too hot for retailers.
Set six months after the novel’s epilogue.

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extended, graphic FF sexual content including oral sex, fingering, body worship, blindfold play, multiple orgasms, praise kink, and explicit language. Intended for readers 18+.

Private Show

Quinn’s birthday fell on a Friday, which meant the universe had a sense of humor and absolutely no respect for her streaming schedule.

She’d done her solo show on Tuesday—business as usual, ring light and lace and the familiar rhythm of performing for an audience that knew her voice better than some of her relatives. She’d signed off with “See you next week, loves,” fully expecting that Friday would be a normal evening: takeout, a movie, Harper falling asleep on her shoulder by ten because the UX program was eating her alive.

Instead, she came home from Blackwell’s to find a note on her door.

Shower. Put on something comfortable. Come to your apartment at 8. Don’t ask questions. —H

Quinn stared at the note. Turned it over. Nothing on the back. She looked at Harper’s door across the hall—closed, silent, no clues. Pixel meowed at her ankles with the urgency of a cat who’d been alone for nine hours and had opinions about it.

“Come to your apartment” was a strange instruction given that she was already standing in front of it, but Quinn had learned over six months that Harper’s plans were worth following even when the directions didn’t quite parse.

She showered in Harper’s apartment—using Harper’s key, which she’d had for four months. She took her time: shaved her legs, conditioned her hair, used the vanilla body oil Harper kept under the sink that Quinn had pretended not to notice was expensive. She put on cotton shorts and a tank top because the note said comfortable and comfortable meant braless and barefoot with wet hair and nothing underneath.

She fed Pixel, who forgave her immediately upon receiving salmon pate. She checked the time: 7:52. She paced. She checked the time again: 7:53.

At 8:00 exactly, she opened her own apartment door.

And stopped breathing.

Her studio corner was gone. Not physically—the ring light was pushed to the wall and draped with a scarf, the camera stowed in the closet, the tripod folded and leaned against the wall like a prop struck from a set—but conceptually, the space had been transformed into something that had nothing to do with broadcasting.

Candles. Dozens of them. Tea lights on the windowsill casting small flickering pools of gold. Pillar candles on the dresser, thick and cream-colored, flames steady and warm. Tapers in mismatched holders along the rolling cart that usually held lingerie and vibrators and charging cables—holders Harper must have bought, because Quinn didn’t own anything that looked this intentional.

The bed was made with white sheets Quinn had never seen—hotel-crisp, soft cotton that glowed in the candlelight. Her acoustic playlist was playing from the speaker on the nightstand, the same mix she listened to after streams to decompress, and the fact that Harper had found it on her phone without asking meant Harper had been planning this for longer than tonight.

And Harper was standing in the center of it all.

Deep green silk robe. Long, belted at the waist, the fabric catching candlelight in liquid ripples. Her hair was down, brushed smooth, falling past her shoulders. Bare feet on the hardwood. And underneath the robe—Quinn could tell from the way the silk fell, the way it showed every line without revealing any of them—nothing.

“Happy birthday,” Harper said.

Quinn’s throat closed. Not with sadness—with the enormous, chest-cracking tenderness of being loved by someone who paid attention. Who remembered that Quinn’s favorite color was green. Who knew that white sheets meant not the stream bed meant this space is ours tonight, not theirs. Who had unplugged the ring light and hidden the camera and turned Quinn’s workspace into a sanctuary, because Harper understood—in the way that only someone who had watched Quinn build and dismantle and rebuild her relationship with performance could understand—that the greatest gift she could give was the absence of an audience.

“You did all this,” Quinn said. Her voice came out wrecked and she hadn’t even been touched yet.

“I bribed Pixel with an entire tin of salmon pate to stay in the bathroom. He’s furious but compliant.” Harper set down the glass of wine she’d been holding. “Rules tonight.”

“You have rules?”

“I learned from the best.” Harper stepped closer. Close enough that Quinn could smell her—the vanilla lotion, the warmth beneath it, the specific scent of Harper’s skin that no camera had ever captured and no audience would ever know. Her hands found the hem of Quinn’s tank top—not pulling, just holding, thumbs pressing against Quinn’s hipbones through the cotton.

“Rule one: no cameras. Rule two: no thinking about how anything looks. Rule three—” Harper’s thumbs traced slow circles on Quinn’s hips, and the contact, even through fabric, sent heat radiating down Quinn’s thighs. “You don’t get to be in charge.”

Quinn’s breath stuttered. “That’s a big ask.”

“It’s your birthday. You don’t have to produce anything tonight. You don’t have to frame anything or time anything or manage anyone’s experience.” Harper leaned in and pressed her lips to Quinn’s jaw—light, barely contact, a suggestion of a kiss. “You just have to feel.”

“One more rule,” Harper added. She reached behind her and produced a silk scarf—black, soft, the kind of fabric that held warmth. “I want to blindfold you.”

Quinn’s stomach dropped. Not with fear—with the vertigo of being offered exactly the thing she needed and hadn’t known how to ask for. Without sight, there was no frame. No composition. No angle to evaluate, no shot to adjust. There was only sensation, and the voice of the woman she loved, and the choice to trust her completely.

“Yes,” Quinn whispered.

Harper tied the blindfold. Her fingers were careful—smoothing Quinn’s hair away from her face, adjusting the fabric so it sat comfortably across the bridge of her nose without pressing on her eyes. The world went dark. Not the cold dark of a room with the lights off, but a warm dark—the candlelight filtering faintly through the silk, turning everything amber behind her closed lids.

“Can you see?”

“No.”

“Good.” Harper’s mouth found Quinn’s ear. The heat of her breath made Quinn shiver from scalp to tailbone. “Now we’re going to do something you’ve never done in front of a camera. You’re going to be touched without watching. You’re going to come without seeing. And the only person who will ever know what you looked like is me.”

Harper kissed her.

Without sight, the kiss was an event. Quinn felt it in layers she usually missed—the initial brush of Harper’s lips, soft and dry, then the slight parting, then the warm, wet slide of Harper’s tongue against her lower lip. She tasted wine and something sweeter, and the sound Harper made against her mouth—a small, satisfied hum, like she’d been waiting hours for exactly this—vibrated through Quinn’s lips and settled in the pit of her stomach.

Harper’s hands slid under Quinn’s tank top. Her palms were warm against Quinn’s ribcage, fingers spread wide, and she moved upward slowly—counting ribs like rungs on a ladder, each one a step closer to the place Quinn was already aching to be touched. Quinn arched into her hands, seeking, and Harper pulled back just enough to deny her.

“Not yet.”

“Harper—”

“I said I was going to worship you. Worship takes time.” Harper pulled the tank top over Quinn’s head. The air hit Quinn’s bare skin and she felt her nipples harden instantly—from the cool, from the anticipation, from the unbearable awareness that Harper was looking at her and she couldn’t see it happening.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Harper said. Her voice had dropped—lower, rougher, the voice she used during sex that was nothing like her daytime voice and always made Quinn’s stomach flip. “Do you know what you look like in candlelight? Your skin goes gold. The tattoo—the moths look like they’re moving.”

Quinn felt Harper’s mouth on her shoulder. The left one—where the tattoo started, the moth at the crest with its wings spread. Harper kissed it, then traced the outline with her tongue, following the ink down Quinn’s arm in a slow, wet line that made Quinn’s skin prickle and her breath come in short, uneven bursts.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the hallway,” Harper murmured against the inside of Quinn’s wrist. “The first time I saw this tattoo. Before I knew about the channel. Before I knew your name. I saw the moth on your shoulder and I wanted to trace it with my mouth and I didn’t understand why.” She pressed a kiss to Quinn’s pulse point. “Now I understand why.”

She guided Quinn to the bed. Quinn felt the edge of the mattress behind her knees and sat, and the sheets were impossibly soft—the kind of thread count that felt like being held by fabric. Harper’s hands found Quinn’s shoulders and eased her backward until she was lying flat, blindfolded, bare from the waist up, on white sheets in candlelight.

Harper’s weight settled beside her. Not on top of her—beside, a warm presence along her left side, and Quinn could feel the silk of the robe against her arm and the heat of Harper’s skin through the gaps in it.

“I’m going to touch every part of you,” Harper said. “And you’re going to tell me how it feels. Not perform it—tell me. Real words. Real sounds. The ones no audience has ever heard.”

She started with Quinn’s face. Fingertips tracing her eyebrows above the blindfold. The bridge of her nose. The curve of her cheekbone, the line of her jaw, the soft skin behind her ear. She traced Quinn’s lips with her thumb—slowly, following the shape of them—and Quinn’s mouth opened involuntarily, tongue touching Harper’s thumb before she could stop herself.

“How does that feel?” Harper asked.

“Like you’re memorizing me.”

“I am.”

Harper’s mouth replaced her fingers. She kissed Quinn’s jaw, the hollow beneath her ear, the side of her neck. She kissed the pulse point that was hammering so hard Quinn was sure Harper could feel it against her lips, and the confirmation came in the form of Harper’s breath—a slow, shuddering exhale that said I can feel how much you want this.

She kissed down Quinn’s throat. The notch between her collarbones. The center of her chest, directly over her sternum, where Quinn’s heart was doing something arrhythmic and desperate. Then lower—the swell of her left breast, kissed in a slow spiral that circled inward, closing on the nipple in decreasing orbits that made Quinn grip the sheets and try not to beg.

Harper’s mouth closed over Quinn’s nipple and Quinn moaned—not the stream moan, not the pitched, placed, audience-calibrated sound she’d trained herself to produce. A raw sound. Graceless. The moan of a woman who couldn’t see and could only feel, and what she felt was Harper’s tongue circling her nipple in slow, wet strokes, and Harper’s fingers rolling the other one, and the devastating asymmetry of warm mouth on one side and cool air on the other.

“Tell me,” Harper murmured against her breast.

“Your mouth is—god, when you use your teeth like that—” Quinn gasped as Harper bit down gently, the scrape of enamel followed by the soothing press of her tongue. “I can feel it everywhere. Not just where you’re touching. My spine. My stomach. Between my—”

“Between your legs?”

“Yes.” The word came out strangled. “I’m already so wet and you haven’t even—”

“I know.” Harper’s hand slid down Quinn’s stomach—not between her legs, but over the waistband of her shorts, pressing flat against the soft skin below her navel. Holding. Not moving. Just the weight of her hand and the promise of where it could go. “I can feel the heat coming off you through the fabric.”

Quinn’s hips rolled up against Harper’s hand. She couldn’t help it—the blindfold made everything more intense, every nerve ending amplified, every touch arriving without warning and landing like something dropped from a height. She was used to being the architect of her own arousal, building it in controlled increments for a camera. Without the camera, without sight, the arousal was building itself, wild and unmanaged, and she was already closer to the edge than she should have been from nipple stimulation and a hand on her stomach.

“Shorts,” Quinn panted. “Take them off. Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” Harper hooked her fingers into Quinn’s waistband and peeled the shorts down. Slowly. Quinn lifted her hips, and the air hit her bare skin, and she was completely naked now—blindfolded on white sheets, exposed and unable to see what was happening, and the vulnerability of it was so acute it bordered on pain.

She heard Harper inhale. A sharp, deliberate breath—the sound of a woman looking at something that affected her.

“What do you see?” Quinn asked.

“You. All of you. In candlelight. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever—” Harper’s voice cracked, just barely, on the last word. “I used to watch you on a screen and think you were the most stunning woman alive. But on the screen you’re performing beautiful. Right now you’re just being it. And it’s so much more.”

Quinn felt tears prick behind the blindfold. She blinked them back. “If you make me cry before you make me come, I’m filing a complaint.”

Harper laughed—the big, full laugh that Quinn loved, the one Harper used to muffle and now let fill whatever room she was in. “Noted. Let me get to work.”

She kissed down Quinn’s body. Sternum to navel, a straight line punctuated by detours—a kiss pressed into the soft skin beside Quinn’s ribcage, a tongue tracing the ridge of her hip, a bite on the curve of her waist that made Quinn jerk and gasp. She kissed Quinn’s thighs—the outer sides first, then the inner, working upward in a path that was strategically, torturously close to where Quinn needed her without actually arriving.

“Harper, I swear to god—”

“Patience.” Harper’s mouth was on Quinn’s inner thigh, inches from her center, and Quinn could feel Harper’s breath against her wet, swollen flesh—warm puffs of air that made her clit throb with each exhale. “You’ve made me wait how many times? On camera? Off camera? The mirror session alone was forty minutes of teasing before you let me—”

“That was different. That was instructional.”

“This is instructional too. I’m teaching you what it feels like to not be in control.” Harper pressed a single, open-mouthed kiss against Quinn’s inner thigh, so close that her chin brushed Quinn’s labia, and Quinn made a sound she’d never heard herself make—a whine, high and thin and desperate, the sound of a woman at the absolute end of her patience.

“Please,” Quinn whispered. She’d abandoned pride. Pride was a luxury for women who could see. “Please, Harper, I need your mouth, I need—”

Harper gave her what she needed.

The first touch of Harper’s tongue was a long, flat stroke that covered Quinn’s entire length—from entrance to clit, slow and firm, collecting the wetness that had been pooling while Harper worshipped the rest of her body. Quinn’s back arched off the sheets and her hands flew to Harper’s hair and the sound that came out of her was guttural, primal, the kind of sound she’d spent years training out of her on-camera performances because it wasn’t pretty. It was real.

Without sight, Quinn experienced Harper’s mouth as pure sensation—detached from visual reference, unmoored from the mental catalog of how does this look and what angle is this and would the audience want to see more of—

There was no audience. There was only Harper’s tongue, tracing slow circles around Quinn’s clit. Counterclockwise. Light pressure that increased by fractions, each revolution a little firmer, a little closer to the exact center. Harper had learned this—had mapped Quinn’s body over months of patient, devoted attention—and the knowledge showed in every movement. She knew when to speed up (not yet). She knew when to add fingers (not yet). She knew the exact progression of sensations that would take Quinn from desperate to devastated, and she was following it with the unhurried precision of a woman who had all night and intended to use it.

“Talk to me,” Harper said against her. The words vibrated through Quinn’s most sensitive skin and she shuddered. “Tell me what you feel.”

“I feel—your tongue—every circle you make, I feel it radiating outward. Like ripples. Through my thighs, my stomach. My nipples are aching and you’re not even touching them. I feel—” She gasped as Harper changed the direction—clockwise now, the shift so subtle it shouldn’t have mattered but did, sending a bolt of fresh sensation through nerve endings that had been building a pattern. “Oh god. Oh god, that’s—”

“Good?” Harper was smiling against her. Quinn couldn’t see it but she could feel the shape of it—Harper’s lips curved against her flesh, the particular warmth of a smile during oral sex that was intimate in a way no camera had ever captured.

“So good. Don’t stop. Please don’t—”

Harper slid two fingers inside her.

The penetration was slow—achingly, deliberately slow. Quinn was so wet that there was no resistance, just the warm, stretching fullness of Harper’s fingers entering her while Harper’s tongue continued its patient work. Harper curled forward, finding the textured spot on Quinn’s front wall that made her vision white out (and she’d have seen white if she could see anything, which she couldn’t, which made the sensation even more overwhelming because there was nowhere to anchor except Harper’s mouth and Harper’s hand and the sound of her own ragged breathing).

“I’m going to make you come now,” Harper said. Matter-of-fact. Certain. The voice of a woman who’d spent months learning exactly how to do this and was about to demonstrate mastery. “Slow. I want it to build until you can’t stand it, and then I want you to let go. Don’t hold back. Don’t perform. Just feel it and let it take you.”

She established a rhythm: tongue on Quinn’s clit in steady circles, fingers curling inside her in a slow pump that matched the pace. Not fast. Not aggressive. A rhythm that said we have time and I’m not going anywhere and you don’t have to rush this for anyone.

Quinn’s orgasm built the way earthquakes build—deep, tectonic, gathering force below the surface. She felt it in her thighs first: a tightening, a coiling, muscles locking involuntarily. Then in her stomach: a heat spreading from her center outward, flooding her torso. Then her chest: breath coming shorter, faster, her heart hammering so hard she could hear it in her own ears.

“Harper—I’m close—I’m—”

“I know. I can feel it. Your walls are tightening around my fingers and your clit is—god, Quinn, you’re so swollen, I can feel your pulse against my tongue—”

The orgasm hit.

Without sight, it was a total-body event. Quinn felt it crest and break like a wave she’d been swimming toward for an hour—not a sharp peak but a vast, rolling surge that lifted her from the inside. Her back arched off the white sheets. Her hand fisted in Harper’s hair. Her mouth opened around a sound that traveled from her chest through her throat and out into the candlelit room—a cry that was half sob, half Harper’s name, broken and raw and nothing like any sound she had ever made for a camera.

Harper held her through it. Tongue gentle now, barely moving, just warmth and pressure while Quinn’s body shuddered and clenched. Her fingers stayed inside Quinn—still, curved, a steady presence while the waves rolled through. She didn’t chase the orgasm or try to extend it. She just held space for it, letting Quinn’s body decide when it was done.

It took a long time. The aftershocks came in diminishing waves—each one making Quinn gasp, her thighs trembling, her hand tightening and loosening in Harper’s hair. When the last one faded, Quinn was crying. Not dramatically. Silently. Tears leaking from behind the blindfold, soaking into the black silk, and the crying wasn’t sad—it was the overflow of being loved past the point of performance, of being held in the dark by someone who wanted the real version, the ugly-cry version, the version that no subscriber would ever see.

Harper crawled up beside her. She left the blindfold on—Quinn hadn’t asked for it to be removed, and Harper was listening to what Quinn’s body wanted, not what convention suggested. She pressed her body against Quinn’s side and held her—one arm around her waist, face against Quinn’s temple, breathing with her.

“How was that?” Harper whispered.

“I think you killed me. I think I’m dead and this is the afterlife and it smells like candles and your vanilla lotion.”

“Good afterlife?”

“The best.” Quinn turned her head—blindly, literally—and found Harper’s mouth. The kiss was salty with Quinn’s tears and musky with Quinn’s taste on Harper’s lips, and the combination was so intimate it made Quinn’s chest ache. “Take this off. I want to see you.”

Harper untied the blindfold.

The world came back in candlelight. Harper’s face, inches away—flushed, bright-eyed, lips swollen and glistening. The white sheets beneath them, rumpled now, damp where Quinn’s body had been. The candles still burning, the room still warm, the playlist still cycling through soft acoustic songs that neither of them was listening to.

And Harper’s body. The robe had fallen open at some point during the worship—Quinn couldn’t pinpoint when—and Harper was bare beneath it. One breast visible, the nipple hard. Her stomach, soft and beautiful. The dark hair between her legs.

“Your turn,” Quinn said.

“It’s your birthday—”

“And what I want for my birthday is to make the woman I love come on these ridiculous white sheets she bought me. That’s my gift. Let me have it.”

Harper’s resistance lasted approximately one second. Then Quinn was rolling on top of her, pinning her to the mattress, peeling the silk robe off her shoulders and down her arms and tossing it over the side of the bed where it landed on something that meowed indignantly.

“Pixel’s out of the bathroom,” Harper said.

“Pixel can deal.”

Quinn kissed down Harper’s body with the focused, reverent attention of a woman who’d spent her career learning what desire looked like from the outside and was now, finally, fully inside it. She kissed Harper’s throat—the spot below her ear that always made Harper’s breath catch, the pulse point that jumped under her lips, the hollow between her collarbones that tasted like salt and vanilla.

She took her time with Harper’s breasts. Six months, and she was still discovering new things—that the left one was slightly more sensitive than the right, that Harper’s breath changed when Quinn used the flat of her tongue versus the tip, that a light bite followed by a slow suck made Harper’s hips lift off the bed in a motion that was pure reflex, zero performance.

“Quinn—your mouth—”

“I know.” Quinn circled Harper’s nipple with her tongue, then blew cool air across the wet skin, and Harper shuddered so hard the bed frame creaked. “You have the most responsive body I’ve ever touched. You know that, right? Everything I do, you react. Everywhere I kiss, your skin changes. Your body is a conversation, Harper. It talks back.”

“That’s because you’re fluent in it.”

Quinn smiled against Harper’s skin and kept moving south. She kissed the soft curve of Harper’s stomach—the part Harper had spent years hiding, the part Quinn had spent months proving was beautiful. She pressed her mouth against the skin just above Harper’s pubic bone and breathed her in—the warm, sharp scent of Harper’s arousal, so familiar now that it registered not as lust but as home.

She settled between Harper’s legs. Looked up at her. Harper’s face was flushed and open, her hair spread across the white pillow, her chest rising and falling with the quick, shallow breathing of a woman who was desperately, impatiently turned on.

“You’re so wet,” Quinn murmured. She ran her thumb through Harper’s folds—a single, slow stroke that made Harper’s hips jerk. “How long have you been like this? Since you set up the candles?”

“Since I bought the fucking candles. Three days ago.”

Quinn laughed—low, delighted—and lowered her mouth.

She ate Harper out the way she did nothing else in her life: without a plan. No choreography, no strategy, no producer’s voice in the back of her head keeping time. She licked and sucked and tasted and moaned against Harper’s flesh, and the sounds Harper made in response were the sounds that had started everything—the sounds through the wall, the sounds that had been Harper’s first introduction to Quinn’s existence, except now they were Harper’s sounds. Loud, uncontained, unapologetic. The moans of a woman who’d been taught to be quiet and had spent six months learning that her volume was a gift, not a liability.

Quinn slid three fingers inside Harper while her tongue circled her clit, and Harper’s body responded with the immediate, full-system engagement that Quinn loved—inner walls gripping, hips rolling, hands finding Quinn’s hair and holding on. Quinn fucked her with steady, deep strokes while her tongue maintained its pressure, and the dual stimulation made Harper escalate fast—from gasps to moans to a continuous, rising sound that climbed like a siren.

“Quinn—I’m going to—oh god, right there, don’t stop, don’t—Quinn—”

Harper came with her back bowed off the white sheets and her thighs clamped around Quinn’s head and a scream that started as Quinn’s name and dissolved into something wordless and enormous. Her body clenched around Quinn’s fingers in rhythmic pulses—Quinn could feel each contraction, each wave, the orgasm rolling through Harper’s body like a tide coming in. She held her through it, mouth gentle, fingers still, letting Harper’s body ride the wave to its natural end.

When it passed, Harper was laughing. Not the polite laugh—the big, snorting, full-body laugh that she used to be embarrassed by and now released without a thought. Quinn crawled up her body and kissed her, and they laughed against each other’s mouths, because this was what sex was supposed to be—not a performance, not content, not a carefully managed experience designed for consumption. Just two women who loved each other, in candlelight, on sheets they’d have to wash tomorrow, laughing because they were happy and the happiness was enough.

They lay tangled together in the wreckage. White sheets knotted at the foot of the bed. Candles guttering in their holders, wax pooling on the dresser. Harper’s silk robe on the floor next to Pixel, who had curled up on it and was purring like a small engine, claiming the most expensive fabric in the room as his personal bed with the quiet entitlement of a cat who had been deeply wronged earlier and was now collecting reparations.

“Best birthday I’ve ever had,” Quinn said against Harper’s chest. She could hear Harper’s heartbeat—slowing, settling, the steady rhythm of a woman coming down from something extraordinary.

“Better than the year you accidentally set your dorm on fire?”

“That wasn’t a fire. It was a thermal event. And yes. Significantly better.”

Harper stroked Quinn’s hair. Slow, rhythmic, the soothing motion of a woman who was still learning how to give comfort physically and was getting better at it every day.

“Quinn?”

“Mm.”

“I love you. All of you. The performer and the person and the woman who cries when she comes and the woman who says thermal event with a straight face and the woman who let me blindfold her on her birthday because she trusted me enough to not be in charge.”

Quinn lifted her head. Looked at Harper in the dying candlelight. The woman who’d heard her through a wall and found her on a screen and loved her in person. The woman who’d walked into a ring light terrified and walked out transformed. The woman who’d built a birthday out of candles and white sheets and the absence of cameras, because she understood that the greatest act of love she could offer a performer was a private show.

“I love you too,” Quinn said. “Every version. Every volume. No mask required.”

She kissed Harper once more. Soft. A period at the end of a perfect sentence.

From the floor, wrapped in Harper’s silk robe, Pixel meowed with the quiet dignity of a cat who had been deeply wronged but was willing to negotiate terms of reentry to the bed.

“Let him up,” Harper said.

Quinn reached down and scooped the cat onto the bed. He wedged himself between their ankles with the precision of a creature who had done this before and considered it his contractual right. He purred. They held each other. The candles burned down to nothing, and in the darkness—the real darkness, warm and close and shared—they fell asleep.

No camera. No audience. No frame.

Just them. Just this. Just home.

Thank you for reading this exclusive bonus chapter from Girl Next Door’s Secret Channel.

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