# Chapter 22: The Door to Desire
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 22 of *Just for the Plot*! I hope you're ready, because this chapter is a rollercoaster of nerves, laughter, and absolutely *scorching* tension. So grab your favorite drink and settle in, because we're about to relive one of the most pulse-pounding, heart-racing moments between Bower and Bennett yet.
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Okay, she can do this. She really, really can. It's just Bennett. Just her best friend's brother. He's been in her life for so long that she knows every flicker of his smirk, every habit he has when he's nervous or excited. So why in the world does her heart feel like it's trying to break out of her chest? Why are her palms sweating like she's about to perform on stage? Why is she having an entire mental conversation with herself, arguing about whether or not to even open the door?
*Knock. Knock.*
Oh God. He's here. She's going to puke. No — keep it together. He's your friend. Nothing has changed. But they *humped*! Deep breaths. You're fine. Like you said, you can do this. Should she be seriously concerned that she's losing her mind having this full-blown argument with herself? Honestly, there isn't enough time to process that. She takes one long, shaky breath, steadies her trembling legs, and opens the door.
And then all of the chaos in her head melts away, because Bennett steps in, his intoxicating scent washing over her like a wave, and before she can say a word, he pulls her into a hug. His arms wrap around her, her cheek presses against his warm chest, and it feels... normal. This is what they've always been. This is friends. Comfort. Familiar. The unknown that had been clawing at her sanity all day just fades away. In his arms, nothing has changed. Two friends, hanging out — exactly as it should be.
When he pulls back, he grins down at her, that handsome face shadowed by the brim of his favorite hat. "Where are the cupcakes?"
She gasps, pushing him away playfully. "Nowhere."
"Liar." The glint in his eyes is pure mischief, and somehow, that lighthearted teasing chases away the last of her nervousness.
He walks straight into her kitchen — of course he does — and spots the empty cupcake box on the counter. Flipping open the lid, he gasps dramatically, looking absolutely betrayed. "What the hell? Why would you keep the box if the cupcakes are gone?"
"I don't know... to be mean?" she says with a wince.
"That was fucking *mean*." He drops his backpack on the counter — new, she notices — and pulls out his phone. She leans in, curiosity getting the best of her, trying to see what he's typing, but he quickly blocks her view.
"What are you doing? Calling the police to arrest me?" she teases.
"If anyone is going to put you in handcuffs, it's me," he says, looking up at her with a wink that makes her heart flip. She swallows the lump in her throat. He's just kidding. He has to be joking. But the way he says it sends a thrill through her body, and she can't help the flash of imagination that runs wild.
"There," he announces, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
"Did you order more cupcakes?" she asks, trying to keep her voice steady.
"I did. And if you're a *good girl*, I'll share." He says those words lower, slower, and she swears a chill races up her spine. He hops up onto her counter, gripping the edge and stretching his arms just enough to flaunt the gorgeous strength of his forearms. She catches herself staring and immediately looks away. *Stop checking him out, Bower. What is wrong with you?*
"So." He twists his hat around backward, exposing those breathtaking blue eyes — vibrant, deep, impossible not to get lost in. She's never been ready for the intensity of his gaze, and tonight is no different. It's like standing at the edge of a beautiful, tempting abyss, and part of her wants to fall right in.
"Are you okay?" he asks, snapping her out of her trance.
"Huh? What? Yeah. Are *you* okay?" She stutters, and she wants to die. But he just chuckles — that low, ridiculously sexy sound — and she would never admit it out loud, but her knees actually feel weak.
"I'm good. You just were staring there for a second."
"Oh, uh, I was thinking."
"Thinking about what?"
"Cockroaches," she blurts out. It's the first thing that comes to mind — the absolute worst possible thing — and she watches his nose scrunch up in disgust.
"Why were you thinking about cockroaches?"
"Why not?"
"Because they're gross."
"You know, cockroaches are always so hated on. It's rude, if you think about it. Why can't they have a normal life like the rest of us?"
"Because they're gross."
"Ugh." She rolls her eyes and leans against the counter. "Cockroach hater."
"Yeah, not sure you would find many cockroach lovers."
"Oh yeah? I bet you're wrong. There are many cockroach lovers out there in the world. There are clubs actually devoted to the love of those brown insects, and given your disgusting display of prejudice, I might just take you to one."
"Yeah, you do that, Bower. Take me to a cockroach club, where they probably let cockroaches squirm all over your body."
She full-on shivers at the thought, and he bursts out laughing. "That's what I thought." Then he hops off the counter and takes her hand. "Come on, let's get this video over and done with."
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"Gretchen approves," Bennett announces as he crashes onto her couch.
"Thank goodness for that, as we wouldn't want to disappoint Gretchen." She brings over two glasses of chocolate milk and sets them on the coffee table, right next to the fresh box of cupcakes. "Now listen," she says, holding up her finger in all seriousness. "I think we need to have some ground rules before we consume."
"Yeah?" he asks, draping his arm over the back of the couch, his shirt stretching deliciously over his broad chest. "What kind of ground rules?"
"First of all, this cupcake is mine, and this one is yours." She points at each one carefully. "And it is your responsibility to remember that. Second, there will be no stealing of the cupcakes. Once you consume your cupcake, that's it, you're done. Understood?"
"Afraid I'll snatch yours?"
"Yes, and even though I had six cupcakes in the last twenty-four hours, I refuse to let you take this away from me."
He chuckles sweetly. "Got it."
"Oh, and there will be no... shenanigans."
He lifts his cupcake and pulls off the wrapper, raising an eyebrow. "Please define 'shenanigans.'"
She eyes him suspiciously. "You know what I'm talking about."
"Ehh, not really. There could be a bunch of things you're referring to—"
"The dry-humping, Bennett. There will be no dry-humping."
He chuckles. "Ahh, that. Yeah, I wasn't going to go there again."
His comment should make her happy. Relieved, even. But instead, she feels a strange pang of disappointment. Her first instinct is to ask why the *hell* not? Her second instinct is to dry-hump his stupid face, just to show him what he's missing out on. But she keeps her composure, because she strapped on her brain today, and she's thinking clearly. She smiles sweetly and says, "Great. Glad we cleared that up."
"Same." He takes a bite of his cupcake and smiles at her while he chews, and she has to look away. Maybe it didn't mean as much to him as it meant to her. Wait — did it even mean something to her? It was the first time in a long time she got off without needing her own hand. And sure, it was erotic and taboo and filled some fantasy she didn't even know she had. But that's it, right? That's all.
"Should we read now?" he asks, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts.
"Sure," she says, shoving the rest of the cupcake in her mouth and grabbing their books. Bennett's still working his way through the baseball series she recommended — he's on book five now, her absolute favorite, the one with the kitchen scene that lives rent free in her head. Meanwhile, she's starting a new hockey book.
She hands him his book, then moves to the far side of the couch. He looks at her. "What are you doing?"
"Uh, I'm about to read, just like you."
"No." He shakes his head. "What are you doing all the way over there?"
"Trying to get comfortable. Do you want me to read next to you, shoulder to shoulder?"
He plops a pillow on his lap and pats it. "No, come lie down."
She stares at the pillow, then at him. "On your lap?"
"Yeah."
"Is this your way of getting me to motorboat your crotch?"
"What?" He lets out a boisterous laugh. "No, I just thought it would be nice for you to stretch out your legs."
That... would actually be kind of nice. So she doesn't overthink it. She moves back to his side, curls up, and rests her head on the pillow in his lap. He settles his hand gently on her stomach, and her brain nearly short-circuits. His palm spans from her waistband to the underside of her breasts, warm and heavy, and she can feel her skin twitch with excitement. *It's just a hand, Bower. A hand on your stomach. Get a grip.*
She takes a deep breath, opens her book, and lets the story consume her. She gets lost in the words, the plot, the beautiful tension of the fake-dating hockey romance. She forgets about the cupcakes. She forgets about the dry-humping. She almost forgets about the man whose fingers are slowly, *slowly* sliding across her waistband.
Almost.
Her eyes pause on a sentence when his finger slides across a small patch of exposed skin. Her breath hitches. Why does that feel so *good*? She glances up at him — as much as her eyes will allow — but he's completely engrossed in his book. Like the touch is nothing. Like it's absentminded. She tells herself it's fine. It's nothing. She goes back to reading.
The heroine in her book is in a sauna with the hero. They're fake dating, and he's trying to keep his hands off her, but she's making it impossible, stripping down in the heat. His eyes are on her tits. His mouth is watering at the thought of sucking them. His cock is hardening as she approaches, closer and closer and—
Bennett's finger glides just under the waistband of her shorts.
She freezes. Her pulse skyrockets. The swipe is minuscule. The impact is enormous. It burns, gently, and leaves her unraveling. She can feel the tip of his finger, resting right there, just past the edge of her waistband. Not moving. Just... existing. She tells herself it's a spasm. She tells herself to move away. She doesn't.
Swipe.
*Oh. My. Fucking. God.*
Her clit throbs. Her nipples harden. She's sweating everywhere. This should not be happening. She should stop him. She should flee. She should do literally anything other than wait with bated breath for the next swipe. And yet, when he does nothing, when the seconds tick by in agonizing silence, she finds herself disappointed. Maybe that's just as far as he'll go. And maybe that's for the best.
She turns back to her book. The heroine is naked now. She's spreading his legs, her eyes on his straining cock, waiting for her mouth—
Swipe.
His hand moves lower, now a few centimeters above her pubic bone. Close enough to make her mad with need. If she just thrust her hips, he'd be exactly where she wants him. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to control the heat pooling in her core. His finger twitches. It's closer now. It has to be closer. Is she imagining things? No — no, his hand lowers, now right above her slit, his finger brushing against her, toying with her, but never truly grazing. Never giving her what she aches for.
And she can feel how wet she's getting. How much she wants this. Needs this.
His fingers press a millimeter farther, right at the edge. Her legs fall open on their own, inviting him, begging him to go further. And she waits. And waits. But he won't cross that line. He grazes, teases, edges her to the brink of insanity. Maybe this is the game. Maybe he wants to see how far he can push her, how much torture she can endure.
Swipe.
Her heart races as his finger slowly — so, so slowly — slides along her slit. All the way down. All the way back up. *Motherfucker.* It's all surface level, but it's enough to make her abandon all reasoning. Her legs fall even wider apart. His finger slides again, barely grazing her clit, and then — to her surprise — he presses his whole palm against her pussy. He just cups her there, still, unmoving. She can barely breathe. Can he feel how wet she is? Can he see how hard her nipples are? Does he know what he's doing to her? She can't even look up to check, because she's afraid of what she'll see.
His finger slides along her slit again. And this time, he presses down. The pad of his pointer finger dances over her clit — lightly, featherlike — before he repeats the motion. Up and down. Up and down.
"Fuck," she groans, unable to hold it back.
She drops her book and slides her hand down his forearm, over his hand, and with her finger on top of his, she pushes him deeper. She guides him along her slickness, showing him exactly what she needs. "Yes," she whispers, releasing him, and he continues on his own — gliding, sliding, thumping, giving her full range, from back to front, inside and out. His technique is unlike anything she's felt before. It's like he's pulling every last ounce of control from her, twisting every nerve and muscle into the most exquisite knot of pleasure imaginable.
"Fuck... yes," she moans as her hips thrust up into his hand. "Make me come."
She can't even think about the fact that she just said that to Bennett. Not even a little. Her mind is racing. Racing for pleasure. Racing for a man she shouldn't want. Racing with the idea that *this* is what it's supposed to feel like — attraction, temptation, desire. It's supposed to make you lose your mind, to forget all outside perspective and just *feel*. And that's exactly what he's doing.
"Fuck... Bennett," she pants as he dips two fingers inside of her, curling against that sweet spot before pulling out and tapping along her clit with short, precise strokes. She gasps. He does it again — two fingers inside, curling, then out, vibrating against her clit. It pulls at her. Tugs. Wars against her ability to hold strong. But she can't. The tension builds and builds and builds until—
"Fuck!" she yells as she crests, her orgasm yanking her from reality and throwing her into a space of white-hot, blinding pleasure. She rides it, humping his hand over and over again until there is nothing left to give. "Oh... my... God," she whispers as her legs clamp around his hand, her body trembling, trying to recover.
After what feels like an eternity, Bennett slowly removes his hand. And as she glances up at him, searching for any sort of answer, he brings his fingers to his mouth. He stares down at her — with those impossibly blue eyes — and sucks them, lapping up every last drop of her arousal. It is, without a doubt, the hottest thing she has ever seen.
"Fucking perfect," is all he says, snapping his book shut.
Then he gently lifts her, sets her aside, and stands from the couch. He's leaving again?
He sees the confusion in her eyes, and he smirks. Once more, he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks them for a second longer, and says, "Tastes like fucking joy."
With a wink, he heads toward the door. She doesn't know what possesses her, but she hops off the couch and blurts out, "You're just going to leave?"
"Have to get to the stadium," he says, glancing down at his lap where his cock is pressing so incredibly hard against his jeans that her mouth waters. "But going to need to take care of some business beforehand. Catch you later, beautiful."
And then he's gone.
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**Reader's Impressions & Star Rating:**
Oh my goodness. This chapter is a masterpiece of tension. Starting with Bower's nervousness and ending with that explosive encounter on the couch, every single beat feels earned. Bennett's playful teasing and casual dominance are perfectly balanced, and the slow buildup of his hand wandering is so exquisitely written that you can feel every touch along with Bower. The way he tastes her afterward and says "Tastes like fucking joy" is absolutely legendary. This is the kind of chapter that leaves you breathless and desperate for more. I honestly cannot stop thinking about it.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ **Rating: 4.9 / 5 Stars.**
**Next Chapter Prediction:**
I predict Bennett's "business" before the stadium is going to be him dealing with his own overwhelming desire, but that won't be the end of it. He's clearly been holding back, testing boundaries, and enjoying every second of tormenting Bower — but after tasting her, he's not going to be able to just walk away. I think the next chapter will bring them back together with even more intensity, possibly leading Bennett to confess that he's done playing games and wants more than just stolen moments. But with their complicated relationship and his baseball career looming, something is bound to explode — and I can't wait to see it.
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