Champagne

Charley Atwell arrives dressed to kill and she knows it. In a black mini dress covered in gold stud embellishments, sheer black fishnet stockings and towering heels, she moves through a gorgeous industrial loft space with the kind of slow, deliberate confidence that makes the room feel smaller. Exposed brick walls, large windows letting in cool grey light, and a rustic wooden table set the scene for what is already shaping up to be an unforgettable evening. She holds a slender champagne flute with a barely-there smile and the look in her dark eyes makes it very clear that the bubbles are merely the beginning.

Champagne does funny things to Charley, and the gold-studded dress starts coming off in the most satisfying way imaginable. The stockings stay on, the dress falls away, and what is revealed underneath is every bit as spectacular as the packaging promised. She drapes herself across the wooden table and arches over the back of a chair, all gleaming skin and dark hair and absolute, unapologetic command of the room. This is not a woman who needs a glass of champagne to feel like a celebration. She already is one.

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