Jodie Gasson leans into the jamb of a white-painted French door, a voluptuous brunette bathed in natural daylight that spills across a honeyed brick wall and a timber studio floor beyond. She is poured into a long-sleeved leopard-print mini dress that hugs every curve of her famously hourglass figure, the hem riding high on the tops of her smoky nude tights, her sun-warmed brunette waves tumbling over one shoulder. A hand settles on the round of her hip, fingers splayed against the print, and a coy smile plays at her mouth as she perches by the open glass with one stiletto-heeled foot crossed in front of the other.

The close focus drinks in the bombshell particulars: the leopard stretch skimming the round fullness of her chest, a belt of nude hose hugging the juncture where dress meets thigh, her creamy skin warmed to gold by the sunlight pouring through the glazing. She tilts into the frame with playful self-possession, hip cocked, dress creeping a whisper higher, the shadow of the mullion falling in lattice lines across her Rubenesque silhouette. Jodie is all mischief and light here, a pin-up by the open door, ripe with the promise of a tease not quite yet begun.