Let Me In

Mia Stryker stands on the flagstone step of a charcoal clapboard cottage, one hand on the dark-painted front door, the other resting on her hip. A striped crop top shows a strip of toned midriff, and white skin-tight jeans hug her legs all the way to a pair of transparent heels that make her calves look like they were carved from marble. Twin topiary cones flank the entrance in terracotta pots, industrial wall lamps glow either side of the door, and a festive wreath hangs behind her head like a halo she almost certainly did not earn. Her dark hair is styled in bouncy, old-Hollywood waves, and the tattooed sleeve on her right arm adds a rebellious edge to an otherwise picture-perfect cottage doorstep. Let Me In is a request. From Mia, it sounds more like a foregone conclusion.

The striped top lifts off and a vivid purple lace bra announces itself against the grey timber, as bold and unexpected as Mia herself. The white jeans slide down next, and she stands in the doorway in nothing but the purple lace knickers and clear heels, her arms at her sides, her firm, pierced breasts catching the overcast English light. The inked tapestry running from her shoulder to her wrist draws the eye down the length of her body, past her narrow waist and the taut line of her stomach. Let Me In stripped the cottage of its cosiness and replaced it with something far more compelling: a woman on a doorstep who looks like she belongs on the other side, and is about to prove it.