Jodie Gasson leans against a bright domestic kitchen counter with a steaming white mug cradled to her chest, bare-faced morning warmth in her cheeks and chestnut hair spilling loose over one shoulder. A clingy burgundy vest top skims the shapely swell of her bust and sits high on her hips, revealing rich wine-red stockings clipped to a slim suspender belt that frames her Junoesque silhouette. Black stilettos click softly on a chequered tile floor as she sips, honey eyes drifting to the lens with a soft, half-dreamed smile.

Perched at the counter edge, Jodie draws one knee up to cradle the sheer top of a stocking, fingertips skimming the silky nylon hugging her luscious thigh. The vest lifts and the burgundy falls away to reveal a delicate black lace bra cradling her buxom, hourglass shape, the scalloped cups straining sweetly against all that creamy skin. She returns to lean against the cupboards, fingers hooked in the strap of her bra, coffee cooling forgotten on the worktop while the light around her turns the morning into something slow, private and unhurried.