Natalia Forrest perches on the rail of a green baize pool table, cue held lightly between her fingers like she already knows how the game ends. Caramel hair spills in loose waves over one shoulder, and a little black bodycon dress skims every statuesque inch of her hourglass figure, the hem inching up to reveal sheer black holdups with an ornate lace top band. Her gaze over the lens is cool, amused, the kind of look that suggests you might want to reconsider the stakes. One stilettoed foot hooks against the cushion, long legs crossing with a practised ease that turns the whole room into her stage.

She swings onto the table, kneels in the middle of the scattered reds and yellows and lifts her arms high behind her head, the dress hiked to bare suspender straps taut against her toned thighs. The zip slides, the black fabric pools at her waist, and Natalia sits back against the baize bare-breasted and luminous, her creamy skin glowing under the lamps as she holds the dress like a trophy in one hand. Stockinged legs stretch along the cloth, heels glittering, a single wicked smile confirming what the title already told you. Maybe losing a shirt to Natalia is not losing at all.