Against a wall of honey-coloured tile in a warm, softly lit walk-in shower, Jodie Gasson stands topless with her long dark hair tumbling past her shoulders, a small teal satin skirt twisted around her waist like an afterthought. Sheer plum pantyhose sheath her legs from hip to toe, the seam running straight down her Rubenesque thighs, one arm curled just beneath her full, buxom chest in a pose that is more confiding whisper than pin-up. Her skin glows golden in the amber light, dewy already with the promise of water.

She braces a stockinged foot against the tile and lifts her leg high, water streaming down the inside of her soaked hose, the satin skirt plastered to one hip and rivulets glittering across her lush hourglass silhouette. The shower runs full over her, the teal fabric darkening, her voluptuous bust cradled in the crook of her arm, head tipped back with eyes half closed as water traces every curve from collarbone to calf. When the spray stops, she stands quietly against the wall, skin gleaming, hose clinging like a second layer, every line of her womanly frame warmed by the honey-gold tiles behind her.