Kloe Kane stands framed in an arched wooden doorway like a study in warm cream and candlelight, a fitted nude bodycon dress skimming every curvaceous line of her hourglass figure, a slim black belt cinching her waist, and pale stockings disappearing into patent black heels tipped with crimson. Copper-red hair tumbles in soft waves past her shoulders, and the afternoon sun spills across porcelain skin until she seems to glow from within. Her poise is quiet but unmissable, the kind of stillness that dares you to look a little longer.

The dress rides up as she sinks to the tiled floor, one heel kicked playfully into the air, the hem gathering around the luscious swell of her hips and revealing the soft pink knickers beneath. Strap by strap the fabric comes away, and Kloe nestles against the carved wood panelling, one arm crossed over her bare chest, a blush-pink and lace-trimmed thong riding low over creamy, womanly curves. Her gaze over the shoulder is unhurried and unmistakably inviting, a hushed invitation whispered against the grain of old oak.