Discipline Dilemma

Reagan walked into the kitchen like she owned it—pinstripes sharp, heels loud on tile. Shay had one hip against the counter, arms crossed, coffee gone cold in her hand. “He needs rules,” Reagan said. No hello. No sugar. Shay raised a brow. “He needs his father. That absent prick left both of us holding the bag.” They glared, circling like alley cats. Then Reagan noticed the way Shay’s dress strained when she leaned, and Shay caught the flicker that crossed Reagan’s face. Anger split into something dirtier. Reagan moved first. Fingers tight in Shay’s dark hair, mouth crashing against hers—teeth, tongue, no patience. Shay shoved back hard, spun Reagan, bent her over the counter. Plates rattled. Reagan’s skirt rucked up; Shay’s hand slid beneath the silk, found her bare and already slick. Two fingers, then three, pushing deep. Reagan grunted, rocked into it, knuckles white on granite. Shay’s free hand yanked the blouse open, nails dragging over lace and nipple until Reagan cursed and clenched around her. They dropped to the kitchen floor—Shay on her back, Reagan straddling her face. Reagan rode slow at first, then faster, grinding against tongue and teeth while her own hand worked between Shay’s spread thighs. Wet sounds filled the room. They came almost together, sharp and loud, thighs shaking, breath ragged. After, they stayed tangled, sweat cooling, dress straps sliding off shoulders. Reagan’s voice dropped low. “This doesn’t mean I like you.” Shay smiled against her thigh. “Didn’t ask you to.”