Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run
Chapter 20

Clara blinked open her dreamy eyes, trying to focus on him, but everything was still a blur. She forced herself to reach out, grasping the hand he had resting on the wheelchair.

He didn't pull away, but he kept a respectful distance. Clara placed his hand on her cheek, her breath warm as she whispered, "Water... I need water..." The heat was unbearable.

Dylan suddenly gripped her chin, making her look at him. "Do you even know who I am?" he asked.

Clara had no idea; all she could think about was how desperately thirsty she was. Even his hand on her chin seemed oddly appealing. She kissed his fingers, moving up to his palm. Dylan's hand jerked slightly, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he wheeled away. Without the wheelchair's support, she collapsed onto the carpet.

The room was cool, and she watched as he headed to the bathroom. Soon she could hear water running. Clara curled up on the carpet, feeling like a thousand ants were crawling over her, itching her to the bone.

Dylan ignored her, rolling a bit away to grab a book from the shelf. Clara panted, sweat slicking her skin. Twenty minutes later, she was drenched in sweat, her hair sticking to her skin.

Dylan wheeled over, scooped her up, and carried her into the bathroom, gently putting her into a tub filled with cold water. The sudden clash of hot and cold made her shiver violently. For a moment, her head cleared, and she sat there, lips pressed together, soaking in the tub. Dylan's expensive suit was now damp with water spots. He sat in his wheelchair, looking down at her like some aloof deity. "Feeling clear-headed now?"

Clara shivered again, and was about to say she was fine, but then the heat surged back, more intense than before. She leaned back, almost slipping under the water.

Dylan quickly pulled her up, soaking his clothes even more. Clara kneeled in the tub, cupping his face, urgently kissing him. How could he be so cold, even when kissing? Her tongue pried his lips apart, seeking more. The next thing she knew, she was pushed under the water.

Dylan turned away, his fingers curling slightly on the wheelchair's armrests. The tension was evident. "Come out when you're fully clear-headed."

This time, Clara really woke up. Her body was still hot, but the cold was biting into her now. She slapped her cheeks, realizing they were swollen. Taking a deep breath, she submerged her face in cold water until the heat ebbed, then slowly rose from the tub. As she stepped out, she nearly slipped, her knees almost hitting the ground. The feverish heat was gone, replaced by a wave of embarrassment.

She stood at the bathroom door, water dripping from her. Dylan, still in his wheelchair, watched her. His suit was visibly damp but he was unruffled. His hands folded in front of him as his eyes met hers. "Better now?" he asked.

"Thank you, Mr. Dylan, for tonight," she replied.

He placed a stack of documents on the bed. "Take a look. They might be useful."

Clara, eager for a distraction, grabbed the papers, realizing they detailed the business networks and connections between the Capital's influential families. This was crucial information for someone like her, struggling with amnesia. Dylan began unbuttoning his suit, pausing as he noticed Clara's gaze. His eyebrows knitted together. "You should step out," he said.

Feeling awkward, Clara moved towards the living room, catching a glimpse of Dylan removing his suit jacket. Shortly after, he reappeared in fresh clothes, pointing to a shopping bag nearby. "Your clothes. Put them on."

Clara hurried into the bathroom with the bag, replaceing thoughtfully included undergarments inside. She changed quickly, catching her reflection in the mirror- her cheeks were still flushed, and one side was slightly swollen.

After hesitating for a moment, she stepped out. Dylan was back in his wheelchair, calmly flipping through company documents. An ice pack lay on the coffee table. His head was slightly bowed, and his long fingers exuded an air of refined restraint.

"Use this for your face," he said.

Clara, still a bit shaken from the night's events, noticed it was already eleven, but she wasn't ready to leave. She settled on the sofa, holding the ice pack to her swollen cheek. The only sound was the rustle of pages turning. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Clara was initially flustered by the kiss, but she now felt like she'd overreacted, seeing how composed Dylan was. Maybe to him, the kiss was nothing more than a fleeting moment, a brush of lips. Dylan seemed like someone untouched by worldly desires.