Sam Tye stands in a bright bathroom in a fitted blue and white bodycon mini dress, star-patterned tights hugging her statuesque legs down to sky-high stiletto heels. Her blonde hair is swept back, her gaze direct and unapologetic, and the black and white checkerboard floor throws geometry up around her commanding silhouette. She arches over the edge of the vintage freestanding tub, the tight fabric riding high over curvaceous hips, those patterned hose tracing every inch of her sculpted thighs as she lets the mood shift from polished to playfully defiant.

The dress falls away and Sam steps out of it with the same unbothered confidence, her creamy, peachy bust catching the daylight, a delicate pendant resting in the soft hollow of her throat. She sinks into a deep bubble bath still wearing those star-print tights, bronzed skin gleaming through clouds of suds, one luminous breast rising above the foam as the sheer nylon clings wet against her thigh. It is a luxuriant, smouldering soak, dark lashes lowered, lips parted, every line of her womanly frame made more arresting by the glossy lather that barely keeps up.