Maria Smith leans into her rock-chick persona against a soft floral wallpaper, a biker jacket hung on a hook behind her like a coat of armour waiting its turn. She is a statuesque, bronzed brunette with glossy hair pouring past her shoulders and a mischievous smirk, dressed in a burgundy Guns N Roses vest cut deep at the sides, tight denim cut-off shorts unbuttoned at the waist, jet black knee-high socks and tan stiletto heels. The vest skims her golden waist and hints at the sheer leopard-print bra beneath, her long athletic legs crossed with a slouched, confident ease.

Maria peels the denim shorts lower, fingers hooked into the waistband so the white leopard briefs peek above her hipbone and the flat golden plane of her stomach is fully on show. The vest ruches up, grazing the soft underside of her lush chest, and she turns to offer a full profile, one hand braced at the wall, the curve from her shoulder to the round of her bottom caught in warm backlight. She smiles over her shoulder with an unruffled, cat-who-got-the-cream look, long brunette waves spilling down her spine, the black socks hugging her strong calves right down to those caramel heels.