Hayley Marie Coppin kneels centre stage on an enormous baroque bed, the carved black headboard and ornate footboard rising around her like dark lacquered scrollwork, deep burgundy walls bathing the scene in a wine-dark glow. She wears a slouchy black jersey dress printed with a winged crest across the bust, the hem falling high over the tops of her thighs, her honey-blonde hair tumbling in loose Pre-Raphaelite curls around her dewy face. A pair of black knee-high socks cling to her shapely calves, the soft cotton cuffing just below the peachy swell of her knee, and a crooked grin tells you she has been thinking about trouble all afternoon.

She peels the dress up over her porcelain hips, biting her lip as fabric glides away to reveal the rounded curve of her belly and the pert, high line of her naked bottom pressed into the bedsheets. Soon it has slipped from her shoulders entirely, Hayley turned in a side-saddle pose with one arm draped coyly across her luminous bust, the black socks now the only thing she wears, bright against the golden light pooling on her creamy skin. She lifts her eyes back to the lens with a sly, wicked smile, pulling the dress back up in a half-hearted cover, the tease already complete, the bed around her looking very big and very bad indeed.