Zoe Moore arrives into the bathroom like the lingering perfume of a party that refused to end, her dark hair tumbling in glossy waves around a porcelain face still touched with smoky eye makeup and a long rope of pearls looped at her throat. She is poised on the edge of the tub in a black lace corset, the delicate scalloped hem skimming the tops of her luscious thighs, while her lithe legs stretch out in sheer stockings patterned with tiny kisses. The light is soft and chalk-white, catching the creamy arc of her shoulders and the neat slope of her knees, and Zoe toys with the pearls between her lips, every movement slow and considered, each pose sculpted and quietly cinematic.

Steam and bubbles begin to gather around her as she sinks into the bath, the lace bodice clinging wet against the curves of her waist and the soft rise of her bosom, pearls trailing like liquid pearl-drops over damp skin. She lifts her gaze from beneath heavy lashes, eyes smouldering, as the corset slips away and the foam becomes her only covering, the kiss-print stockings still clinging to her legs beneath the water. The frame softens until only the glow of her luminous skin, the dark halo of her hair, and the satin gleam of pearls against her bare breast remain, an intimate closing portrait of a woman dissolving the night into warm water and perfumed quiet.