Helen G has commandeered her honey-toned kitchen, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she stands at the counter with a box of muffin mix in hand and the promise of mischief glinting in her eyes. A short purple and white floral sundress skims the rounded swell of her hips, the hem lifting at the back to tease the peachy underline of her bottom against the wooden cabinet behind her. Bright red ankle socks pull the whole scene into cheeky focus, a splash of colour against the warm browns of the kitchen, and her silky legs lead the eye all the way up from those discarded black heels on the tiled floor.

Helen hops up to perch on the counter, knees together and red-socked feet dangling in the air as she shoots a smouldering look down the length of the frame. Her hands wander to the hem of the sundress, inching the fabric up her luscious thigh to reveal a flash of deep purple beneath and the taut, womanly line of her hip. She turns and leans into the cupboards with her back arched, the dress riding high enough to bare the full, rounded cheek of her bottom in the warm afternoon glow, her silhouette catching the light through the lace curtains. Part pin-up, part private joke, she flicks that dark fringe over one eye and lets a smile spread wide, a baker with nothing on her mind but the sweetest kind of trouble.