Lyla Ashby has always known exactly what she is doing to a camera, and on this sun-washed terrace she leans into the mischief with a grin. A white Mediterranean villa curves behind her, pale stone bright against the pines, and Lyla stands in nothing but sheer black patterned tights and heeled shoes, blonde hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. Her arms cross high, cupping her buxom, full-bosomed figure as the light sets her luminous skin aglow, a tease of soft curve slipping between her fingers while she tips her chin at the lens.

Indoors the mood simmers down to something warmer and more private. Lyla stretches out on a rumpled cream bed, bathed in low sunlight that pools across her golden skin, and teases the camera with a sidelong look while her hands keep their playful cover. Then she rolls onto her back, legs folded lazily in the air, those dark patterned tights tracing the long curve of her calves and the soft swell of her hips against the sheets. It is an unhurried, giggle-bright kind of satisfaction, the sort that lingers.