Jamie Jenkins arrives at the top of the staircase like a private secret kept just long enough to be worth the wait, her chestnut waves tumbling past a plush faux fur jacket that hangs open over a lace-trimmed cream bra and matching knickers. She plants her heels on the white sheepskin rug, sheer black holdups drawn taut over shapely thighs, the curve of her hourglass framed by the soft collar brushing her collarbones. Her smile is knowing, the kind that tells you she understands exactly what the fur and the lace are doing in the same frame.

By the middle frames Jamie has shrugged the jacket off and leaned into the door, her lithe torso arched and her peachy, pert backside tipped back in tease, lingerie clinging to her silky skin while the stocking tops catch the warm hallway light. In the late image she has slipped the bra away entirely and knelt on the rug in just her lace thong and fishnet holdups, bare breasts soft in the ambient glow, eyes half lidded as one hand trails up to the bannister. It is a slow, luxurious striptease disguised as a quiet afternoon at home.