Ripped Out Of Her Comfort Zone

Puck’s pants split wide open right there in the hallway. Heat shoots up her neck. She bolts into the host’s bedroom and yanks the door shut, breathing hard, thumbs hooked in the torn denim. Kenna slips inside a minute later. Puck can’t even meet her eyes. “I ruined everything,” Puck hisses, pacing. “Everyone saw.” Kenna doesn’t say a word. She just grabs the back of her own jeans and tears the seam in one quick, vicious pull, baring the smooth curve of her ass. Puck’s mouth drops open. The sudden quiet feels louder than the music outside. Kenna leans into it, ripping farther so the split climbs high between her cheeks and drops low under them. The sound drags another laugh out of Puck—raw and shaky. She hooks her fingers into the split across her own thigh, pulling. Fabric snarls, threads snap, cool air hits skin that’s suddenly bare. They keep going. Kenna’s rip reaches the waistband, fabric hanging in flaps. Puck drags hers wider until the denim just clings by a thread above each knee. Pants hang loose around their hips now, asses fully out, flushed and warm under the low bedroom light. The sight hits hard and fast. Puck’s gaze drops between Kenna’s legs, lingers, comes back up. Kenna’s eyes are darker. They step into each other at the same time. Mouths crash. Puck’s hands slap flat on Kenna’s ripped ass, squeezing; Kenna answers by palming Puck’s and yanking her closer. They fuck in short, quiet bursts—fingers, tongues, bodies grinding into the host’s mattress. The party thumps through the walls. Puck bites the pillow to keep the noise down. Kenna’s breathing is ragged in her ear. Every slap of skin sounds too loud, too wet, and that only pushes them harder.