Zara Du Rose kneels on a rumpled cream duvet in the centre of a carved ivory four-poster bed, her copper hair falling in a sleek bob around her cheekbones and a soft flush on her porcelain skin. She wears a little polka dot bandeau bra and a black pencil skirt hitched modestly to the knee, but the real mischief lives on her legs, a pair of long harlequin thigh highs striped in black and nude argyle that climb all the way up her slender thighs. The pale light and the dreamy lilac hush of the room make her look like she has been caught mid afternoon with nowhere to be, her smile soft and faintly amused.

Zara rolls onto her back and swings her toned legs high into the air, crossing her ankles against a bedpost so the diamond pattern of the socks runs the full, coltish length of her. She props up, peels the skirt slowly over her head with both hands, and reveals a flat, tattooed stomach and matching polka dot briefs that balance prettily on her narrow hips. She settles cross legged again on the pillow, the bandeau riding along her pert bust, the playful print of her socks tangled underneath her, and her quiet, cheeky gaze offering the camera a kind of languid sweetness that feels both girl next door and quietly irresistible.