Carly Thorpe arrives in the airy loft office in pure boardroom-bombshell mode, a crisp white blouse knotted just above a pencil skirt that hugs her shapely hips, sheer nude stockings gleaming down athletic legs and finishing in strappy black platform heels. Her platinum crop is razor-sharp, her smoky eyes assess the room with cool authority, and every movement from the wooden stair rail to the white leather sofa carries the composure of a woman who knows exactly what she is doing and why she is doing it.

She kicks off the folio and stretches out across the couch, legs crossed at the knee to show the dark welt of stocking tops and the porcelain thigh above them, the blouse falling open to reveal a black lace bra cradling full, magnetic curves. The skirt inches up, the shirt slides off, and Carly poses with one knee planted on the leather, pulled taut in nothing but the black lace balconette, a tiny matching thong and those seamed stockings clinging to toned, commanding thighs. It is a striptease delivered with the precision of a closing argument, and the verdict is never in doubt.