Epiphany settles into a rustic country lodge of flagstone walls and dark timber as though she has been waiting for you by the fire all afternoon. She wears a plunging red lace bra, a matching ruffled red suspender thong and sheer nude stockings, finished with crisp white stiletto courts that catch the warm amber light. Reclining along the wooden table beside a chesterfield armchair, one long, lithe leg angled across the tan leather, her chestnut hair falls in sun-bleached waves over her shoulders and the slow flicker of firelight plays across her dewy, sculpted stomach and the soft swell of her small, pert breasts.

As the afternoon deepens Epiphany rises up onto the table, turning to press her palms to the stone as she arches her back and throws a slow, knowing glance over her shoulder. The red thong traces the line of her peachy rear above the nude stocking tops, every frame a study in warm tone on warm tone. By the late images she has stripped the bra away entirely and lies back across the timber with her hair pooling around her face, gold bangles gleaming on her wrist, gaze half-lidded and dreaming. It is a slow, candlelit sort of seduction, photographed with the lush, cinematic glow of a private weekend away.