Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run
Chapter 29

Clara found herself back at the hotel tonight, once again lounging in Dylan's suite. She'd taken his room card with her when she left home that morning. After a grueling day tangled up in real estate dealings, she swiped the card and entered, too worn out to question anything.

She sank into the sofa, stifling a yawn. In her sleepy haze, she heard the sound of running water from the master bathroom. Looking up, she spotted Dylan.

There he was, drying his hair with only a towel wrapped low around his waist. He wasn't in his wheelchair now. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, though his steps were painstakingly slow.

Clara snapped out of her daze and jumped up from the sofa. Dylan stood still, casually running the towel over his hair, glancing at the door, probably wondering how she'd gotten in.

It was the first time she'd seen him with his chest bare. Water droplets trailed down from his neck, tracing the firm lines of his torso before disappearing beneath the towel. She quickly looked away. "Oh, Mr. Dylan, fancy seeing you here."

"This is my room."

Clara felt a flush of embarrassment. She must have been too exhausted to think clearly, and let herself in without a second thought. Dylan moved slowly, needing to brace himself against the wall or furniture. Yet, his back was straight, like a resilient oak standing tall against a storm, exuding a formidable strength.

Almost instinctively, Clara stepped forward to steady him by the arm. "Sorry, I'm just wiped out tonight. I'll get another room right away."

Her hand brushed against Dylan's skin, cool from the recent shower. He pulled his arm away, his face unreadable. "You can crash on the sofa for another night."

Clara yawned again. When you're really tired, your mind aches, and it feels like you could fall asleep the moment your head hits a pillow. "Thanks."

Since he didn't want her help, she decided not to push it, turning to leave. But she paused when she saw him heading for the hairdryer. His movements were still deliberate.

Clara quickly stepped in, "Need help with your hair? Let me get that for you."

She reached up on tiptoe to grab the hairdryer from the cabinet, but the plug swung and accidentally hit her forehead, causing her to step back into a solid wall of muscle.

Dylan, still in rehab and barely managing to stand, was knocked back onto the large bed behind him.

Clara realized what had happened and quickly turned around. In the process, her clothing snagged on Dylan's towel the only thing he had on. As the towel was about to slip away, his expression darkened. "Clara!"

She froze, squeezing her eyes shut. Even catching just a glimpse, she couldn't help but acknowledge it inwardly. Dylan, in every aspect, was impressively well- endowed.

Dylan saw her eyes squeezed shut, turned his gaze aside, and rigidly braced his arm against the bed. "Get out."

He yanked the nearby blanket over his lower half. Clara opened her eyes, careful not to look at his direction. "Alright, Mr. Dylan, have a good rest."

The awkwardness was overwhelming; her sleepiness had vanished entirely. Once the door clicked shut, the master bedroom was enveloped in silence.

Dylan lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, one arm draped over his eyes, lost in thought. His hair was still damp, the moisture seeping into the sheets. He had always seemed like a cold, distant man, but something about him had now shifted. It was as if a barrier of restraint had been broken, leaving an intoxicating allure in its wake.

Clara opened the door again, her voice tinged with lingering embarrassment. "Mr. Dylan, I've booked a separate room. I won't bother you tonight. Goodnight."

She had intended to leave directly but realized it was polite to say something.

After a long pause, a muffled reply came from inside the room, "Alright."