Sam Tye is supposed to be decorating, though anyone watching would swear she was auditioning for the cover of a very mischievous lifestyle quarterly. Her navy boilersuit is flecked with fresh paint, the collar popped, blonde hair swept back in a low ponytail, scarlet lip immaculate despite the chaos on the wall behind her. She holds a loaded paintbrush between finger and thumb, one hand cocked on her hip, and the sunlit studio catches every golden highlight across her creamy, glowing complexion. The bib of the suit skims the generous curve of her bust, hinting at trouble to come.

The zip slides down and the overalls fall away to reveal a rich purple lace bra cradling her full-bosomed chest, a matching thong riding low across her hourglass waist. She trails the brush teasingly between her breasts, lashes lowered, then turns to the wall with a cheeky over-the-shoulder glance, caramel-seamed stockings climbing her shapely thighs. Bare back arched, one palm flat on the plaster, she paints an imaginary stripe along her hip and grins like the most delinquent decorator in the county. Whatever room she was meant to be finishing, the only thing getting a second coat now is the viewer's attention.