Dont Walk Away

Harrietta Taylor steps along a sun-dappled stone pathway beneath a wooden pergola, the kind of courtyard that belongs in a travel magazine. She wears a black zip-front mini dress that hugs her slender frame, the gold zipper glinting in the afternoon light, and cork-heeled platforms that elevate her long, tanned legs. Her blonde waves cascade past her shoulders in honey and champagne tones, and a delicate pendant rests against her bronzed decolletage. Terracotta planters overflow with greenery on either side, a wrought iron bench sits in the shade, and the warm Mediterranean air seems to shimmer around her. She crouches low on the pathway, the hem of her dress riding up to reveal a flash of mint-green lace underneath, and her blue eyes sparkle with invitation. Dont walk away is the title, and with a view like this, nobody could.

The gold zipper descends and the black dress parts to reveal a matching mint lace lingerie set that looks like it was designed for her. The seafoam bra cups her pert breasts in delicate embroidery, and the lace knickers sit low on her hips, a tiny belly-button piercing catching the sun above the waistband. Harrietta twists her fingers through her blonde hair, her toned stomach and narrow waist glowing in the filtered light. The bra unclasps and falls away, and she stands beneath the pergola in nothing but the lace knickers and those towering platforms, one hand held lightly against her bare chest. Surrounded by terracotta and climbing vines, her skin luminous in the afternoon warmth, Harrietta is the kind of sight that makes you plant your feet and stay exactly where you are.