Zoe Moore holds the balcony doorway like a stage, framed by open French windows with the sky pouring pale light around her. A wave of glossy black hair spills past her shoulders, and her petite, toned figure is wrapped in a short cream slip that clings at the bust and skims the top of her thighs. Sheer black lace top stockings climb her slim legs into towering peep toe platforms, and her dark eyes meet the camera with a cool, unhurried authority that tells you she already knows Romeo can wait outside.

Zoe leans in close and lets her fingertips trail across the delicate scallop of the lace, the fine mesh stretching softly over the curve of her thigh, the intricate black pattern tracing the creamy skin beneath. Then she gathers the hem of the slip in both hands and lifts, baring a pair of small, pert breasts and a tattooed hip above her black lace briefs, chin tipped down, lips parted just enough to be a challenge. She lets the fabric slip back into place and settles her weight on one stiletto heel, the poise that of a woman who has rewritten her own balcony scene and liked it rather better this way.