Danielle Sellers is the kind of Window Display that stops traffic, curled up on a brown leather pouffe in a loose denim shirt left completely unbuttoned, red knickers, and white slouchy over-the-knee socks that bunch and fold along her toned legs. Her blonde hair is tousled and sun-streaked, and a window with slatted shutters throws golden lines of light across her bare chest where the denim gapes open. A scatter of cushions and the worn leather give the scene a lazy, weekend-morning intimacy, and Danielle's half-smile says she has nowhere to be and nothing to prove.

The denim shirt slips from one shoulder, then the other, as Danielle stands and lets the fabric hang from her elbows, her perky, firm breasts bared between the open panels. She tilts her chin and looks straight down the lens with an expression that balances sweetness with something far bolder. In the closing frames she sits back on the pouffe, the shirt pooled behind her, topless in just the red knickers and white socks, her legs tucked beneath her. The shuttered light stripes her skin in amber, and Danielle looks like the best thing that ever happened to a lazy afternoon.