Kloe Kane has curled up on a sheepskin throw in front of a stone fireplace, copper red hair braided into two long plaits that fall either side of a cheeky grin, a blue checked shirt knotted high over denim cutoff shorts. Bright royal blue knee-high socks hug her petite, shapely calves down into crisp white red-soled trainers, the whole scene lit in soft evening lamplight with a pair of little bronze lion statues keeping watch on the hearth. She looks like a favourite daydream, all freckles and dimples and mischief ready to happen.

By the middle frames Kloe has knelt up on the fur, the shirt tugged apart to reveal her pert, rounded breasts framed between her braids, a royal blue thong pulled high over her creamy, peachy hips. In the late image she has lost the shirt and shorts entirely and tipped forward across the rug, bare, porcelain curves stretched long, only those bright blue socks and white trainers left, one braid trailing as she glances back over her shoulder with a slow, teasing smile. It is a cosy fireside afternoon that turns quietly, sweetly bare.