Jamie Jenkins plants her heels on a black-and-white checkerboard floor like she owns the room, a short mint-green zipped mini dress skimming a curvaceous figure, sheer black holdups running the length of her toned legs into spike-heeled ankle boots. A claw-foot bath and gleaming white subway tile surround her, a silver swan tap catching the light, her loose brunette waves falling down past her shoulders. The look she gives the lens is pure attitude, glossed lips, dark-rimmed eyes, an arresting brand of confident that needs no introduction.

Jamie lowers the zip and lets the mint fabric fall open, perching on the rim of the tub in a leopard-print balconette bra and matching thong, her shapely waist and luscious curves glowing against the cool monochrome behind her. The dress pools on the floor, the bra comes away, and she twists on a heel with arms crossed over her pert bust, holdups hugging the fullness of her thighs, a silver ring flashing on one long-nailed finger. She plants a stiletto on the porcelain curve of the bath, a sliver of lace between her thighs, brunette curls tumbling forward, and the whole room feels temperature-hot against that cold tile. Fierce, filthy, flawless.