“Pity.” She rose, took the bag, and laid the items on a marble table. First, the condom. She stretched it over the handle of a pastry brush. Then, the cream—she dabbed it onto the condom’s surface. Finally, she took an eclair, sliced it open, and glazed the inside with the remaining cream before reassembling it.
The Spire’s elevator played a soothing hum. The door to PH-9 was already ajar, spilling warm, buttery light and the scent of vanilla. Inside, a woman with silver-threaded hair sat in a floating armchair, knitting what looked like a small bomb-sniffing dog’s sweater. hunt4k condom cream eclairs
She handed him a single, untouched eclair in a velvet box. “Pity