Sam Tye steps into a honey-warm bedroom dressed in a cream ivory babydoll, a floral-corded four-poster rising behind her like an invitation. Her blonde hair falls loose over her shoulders, her skin luminous against the soft linen, and the hemline teases the tops of sheer black stockings that skim her peachy thighs. There is mischief in her gaze, a curl at the corner of her mouth that says she knows exactly how good she looks perched at the foot of that dressed bed.

The ivory drifts away and Sam is revealed in black strappy lingerie, her pert bust uncovered, a harness of straps tracing the line between her collarbone and waist. She kneels across the quilt with a smile that is half tease, half dare, her stocking tops biting into soft, creamy skin. She opens her knees on the edge of the mattress, lace tops gripping her thighs, fingertips grazing hip bones, her bosomy figure lit golden by the lamp on the nightstand. It is a slow, smiling unwrap, and every inch of her delights in the watching.