Jamie Jenkins arrives poolside with hair slicked back and skin still dewy from the water, her curvaceous figure poured into a leopard-print swimsuit that hugs every shapely inch. She kneels on pale tile beside the glittering blue, chin tilted, dark eyes locked on the lens with a heat that could scorch the surrounding glass. Her bronzed thighs are sheathed in sheer black stockings patterned with scattered lipstick kisses, banded at the top with a deep elastic cuff that cuts a tempting line high on each leg. Jamie shifts onto one hip, the wet fabric clinging to her full bust and the curve of her waist, droplets tracing a slow path down her collarbone.

Stretched out across the tiles, she becomes all mouth and muscle, a predatory smile playing at her lips as a hand rests lightly between her stockinged thighs. Jamie teases one strap from her shoulder and the leopard print slides loose around her ribs, baring the bronzed skin of her stomach and the soft swell just above the waistband. She tips her head back against the sun, arm raised in a languid arch, the black kisses printed on her nylons catching the light like fingerprints left behind on her skin. A woman built for water and for trouble, Jamie turns an afternoon dip into a slow, smouldering dare.