Jodie Gasson has the kind of Rubenesque abundance that makes strong men kneel down and beg, and in the soft nude-toned glow of this shoot she knows it. She stands framed in a narrow white alcove, one hand braced high on the wall and the other curved possessively across her waist, poured into a barely-there blush bodycon mini that can scarcely contain the stacked glory of her chest. Lace-topped pale nude stockings climb her statuesque legs and disappear beneath the hem, dark grey glitter heels add an inch of swagger, and a cascade of rich brunette hair falls over one shoulder as she fixes the lens with a slow, unblinking challenge.

She turns, and the dress peels away over her Junoesque curves, revealing nothing beneath but a thong and those same creamy nylons, the peachy roundness of her backside pushed out for the camera while she glances back over her shoulder. Sinking to the wooden floor on her knees, Jodie tugs the bodice down to bare the bosomy swell of her full, heavy breasts, cradling them in her forearm as the dress gathers soft as spilled cream at her hips. Her brown eyes smoulder from beneath that thick fringe of lashes, every glance dynamite, every tilt of her luscious body a reminder of exactly why this set demands a second look.