Shelley Roberts perches at a dim, mirrored cocktail bar, a martini glass balanced on her fingertips and a gilded Buddha watching her over the optics. Her bleached blonde mane falls in long beachy waves over bare shoulders, and a short navy bandage dress with criss cross panels hugs every inch of her buxom, curvaceous frame. Tan lace topped stockings climb her golden thighs, peeking brazenly from the hem as she crosses one leg over the other on the leather barstool. She looks like she has been waiting for you on purpose, lashes lowered, pillowy lips parted, the whole glossy tableau of a girl who came out alone and intends not to stay that way.

Shelley slides off the stool and draws the bodice of her dress down to her waist, freeing creamy, full breasts in the warm bar light while her grin turns utterly wicked. She hitches the navy fabric up around her hips and turns to show the soft, peachy swell of her bottom, the lace bands of her stockings gleaming against bronzed, glowing skin. Back on the stool she sprawls in triumph, one hand in her hair and one stocking clad leg flung wide, the dress pulled back into a semblance of decency that fools no one. Every glance over her shoulder is an invitation, every recrossed thigh a soft boast, Shelley utterly in her element among the brass taps and low amber light.