Frankie Lain takes over a sun-washed farmhouse kitchen in Distraction, standing between the worn oak table and the cream-painted cabinets in head-to-toe crimson: a padded bra that lifts her spectacular bust into a deep, inviting valley, a floral lace suspender belt, sheer red stockings, and glossy red heels. Copper pans hang overhead, a kettle sits on the range, and the whole scene looks like an ordinary country morning that has gone gloriously off-script. Her chestnut hair falls in a glossy curtain past her waist, her nose stud catches the light, and the grin she wears says she knows exactly how distracting she is.

She climbs onto the kitchen table and pulls the bra cups aside, freeing her lush, weighty breasts as she kneels among the pine knots, red lace fanning out around her thighs. The suspender straps stretch taut, the stockings shimmer, and Frankie glances back with an expression caught somewhere between laughter and desire. Soon she is lying across the table, hair spread out like spilled treacle, one red heel pointed toward the copper-pan rack, her bare chest rising and falling as the morning light pools on her warm skin. Whatever was supposed to happen in this kitchen today has been thoroughly, wonderfully derailed, and Frankie does not look the least bit sorry.