Lacey Banghard sits at the centre of a plush bed draped in faux-fur throws, framed by an ornate iron headboard, wearing a bright Baby Blue camisole that drapes loosely over her curvaceous frame and tan patterned stockings with decorative lace tops. Her auburn ombre hair falls straight past her shoulders, dark at the roots and honey at the tips, and her dark-painted nails press gently into the fur beneath her. The bedroom is soft and neutral, whites and creams and warm metallics, and Lacey's wide, knowing eyes make the blue of the camisole the only colour that matters.

The camisole is lifted overhead to reveal an ivory lace bra with intricate blue-grey floral embroidery, its cups cradling her generous, well-rounded chest with the precision of couture. Lacey stretches out on the fur, the cream lace barely containing the lush swell of her breasts as she rolls onto one side and runs a hand through her ombre hair. The patterned stockings glimmer against the throw, and the discarded blue fabric lies beside her like a souvenir. Everything about Baby Blue is hushed and close, a bedroom confession told in whispers and warm skin.