Summer St. Claire has a way of making an old beamed cottage feel like the most decadent room in the house. Stood in front of a deep leather sofa with honeyed blonde hair falling loose past her shoulders, she grins as though caught mid confession, her slender, lithe frame laced into a black padded bra, a scalloped suspender belt and matching lace briefs. Sheer black stockings sheath her long legs, the straps drawing pretty lines across the creamy skin of her thighs, and a single raised shoulder gives the game away.

Settled on the arm of the sofa, Summer kneels with her hands cupping her pert bust, tongue just touching her lip as the lamplight warms her porcelain shoulders and the soft plane of her stomach. She swings her leg up to peel a stocking slowly down her calf, one stocking already half removed, cradling a black stiletto in her hand while her bra slips away and a glimpse of breast teases out beside the cushion. There is a homely, giggling warmth to it all, an after hours kind of loveliness that makes the TV feel like very distant company indeed.