Tiffany Naylor settles onto a woven rattan sofa against a warm exposed brick wall, her slender silhouette framed by plump navy cushions and the soft amber glow of interior light. She wears a sweet berry print sundress splashed with red and black blooms over cream, the bodice skimming her pert curves while the skirt flares over her hips. Her lithe legs are sheathed in sheer black hosiery, toes pointed in black patent heels, and she props her hands on her waist with the easy confidence of a pin up who knows every angle is her best.

Tiffany teases the hem a little higher as she shifts against the cushions, the dress skimming her creamy thighs while those silky stockinged calves stretch across the seat. Her toned shoulders catch the warm tungsten light, bare arms smooth and peachy against the painterly brickwork behind her. There is something deliciously girl next door about the way she laughs into the lens, shoulders rolling forward, ankles crossed just so, her petite frame tucked into the corner of the sofa like a secret treat waiting to be discovered.