Carly Thorpe curls onto a black damask duvet with a well-thumbed paperback, her platinum-blonde crop framing smoky eyes that dip toward the page. A white "Love" vest clings to her pert bust and slides high over her bronzed midriff, the hem brushing the top of the nude holdups that skim her lean, toned thighs. The little bedside lamp glows low at her side, its warm pool of light tracing the shapely curve of her calf and the graceful arch of her bare foot as she sinks deeper into the mattress.

Whatever she is reading has clearly stirred something. Carly tugs the vest away to reveal a simple white cotton bra and briefs that cup her luscious figure, her back arching as she rises to her knees, one hand splayed across her flat stomach. The cotton pieces fall away to leave only the lacy tops of those stockings kissing her silky thighs, her tanned skin aglow against the black and ivory bedding. She kneels in profile with a slow, sultry glance over her shoulder, returning at last to the book with legs folded beneath her, every inch of her softly lit and utterly lost in her own late-night mischief.