Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 132: Zyren.... Touch Me..

After a soft kiss, Deniz pulls back just enough to look at me.

The space between us is nothing—inches, heartbeats—but it feels infinite. His dark eyes search mine, moving slowly, carefully, reading every flicker of emotion on my face. He’s not asking with words. He doesn’t need to.

Is this okay? Do you want this?

I answer without speaking. My hands are still wrapped around his neck, fingers tangled in the soft hair at his nape.

I don’t let go. I pull him closer, just a fraction, just enough to show him what my voice can’t say.

His eyes soften. Something in them shifts—relief, maybe, or wonder, or both.

Then he leans in again.

This kiss is different.

The first was gentle, tentative — a question.

This one is an answer.

Hungrier. Deeper. More urgent, but not rushed. Every movement of his lips against mine feels deliberate, like he’s learning me, memorizing the shape of my mouth, the way

I gasp when he—

He sucks my upper lip, soft and slow, and my whole body shivers. Then his tongue slides against the seam of my lips, asking.

Always asking. Never taking.

I part for him.

He deepens the kiss, and my breath—my entire existence—seems to pour into him. His tongue moves against mine, warm and slow and right.

I can’t breathe. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

I don’t want to breathe. I just want this. Want him. Want to stay in this moment forever.

His hands cradle my face like I’m made of something precious. Something fragile. His thumbs trace my cheekbones, featherlight, while his lips continue their gentle exploration.

My fingers clutch the red silk of his shirt, twisting the fabric, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Time loses meaning.

There’s only him. Only this.

Then—

He pulls away and slowly rises to his feet.

Giving me space, giving me air, giving me time

I gasp. The sound is loud in the sudden silence—ragged, desperate, utterly shameless. My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath.

The rose petals shift beneath me as I slowly sit up, crushed and fragrant, some clinging to my white shirt.

The air is thick now. Heavy. Saturated with his scent—that fresh, clean rose that’s always been my anchor—mingled with the crushed petals around us.

I can’t tell where he ends and the flowers begin. Maybe there’s no difference.

Deniz’s eyes never leave me.

Not for a single moment.

His gaze travels over my face, my flushed cheeks, my parted lips, my heaving chest. He watches me breathe. Watches me come back to myself.

And I watch him.

The candlelight flickers across his skin, casting golden shadows that dance with every movement. His dark hair is slightly disheveled now, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger.

Softer. Completely, devastatingly beautiful.

His fingers move.

Slowly. Calmly. Deliberately.

They find the first button of his shirt.

He doesn’t look away from me as he works it open.

Then the next. Then the next.

Each one a small revelation, a small surrender. The red silk parts, revealing glimpses of skin—his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, the beginning of the strong chest I’ve imagined so many times.

I can’t look away. I don’t want to.

The last button slips free. The silk slides from his shoulders, catching the candlelight one final time before it pools on the floor like liquid fire.

And then he’s bare before me.

My breath stops.

His chest is—there aren’t words. The smooth planes of muscle, the way the candlelight gilds his skin, the shadows that carve themselves into the hollows and curves.

He’s beautiful. Not in the polished, perfect way of models or actors.

In a real way. A his way.

I want to touch him. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll wake up.

He sits before me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. His knees brush mine.

The contact is small, but it sends a shock through me, electric and new.

His gaze travels over me now. Slowly. Reverently. From my face to the pulse in my throat, down to the way my hands twist in the sheets.

He doesn’t rush. He just looks — like he’s memorizing me.

Then his hand lifts.

His fingers find my foot first.

The touch is almost weightless, barely there. But the reaction isn’t — a slow heat unfurling from where his fingers rest.

Then they move higher.

Slowly. So slowly.

They trace up my calf, following the curve of muscle, pausing at the sensitive spot behind my knee.

My leg jerks involuntarily. He smiles—just a small curve of his lips—and continues.

Higher. To my knee. To my thigh.

I watch his every movement, my face burning, my heart a wild, frantic thing against my ribs. The petals crush beneath us as he shifts closer.

The scent of roses intensifies, wrapping around us like a second skin.

His fingers reach my chest.

They pause there, resting lightly above my heart. I can feel it hammering against his palm—my heart, my stupid, traitorous heart, giving away every secret I’ve ever had.

His eyes lift to mine.

"Are you okay?"

The words are barely a whisper. His voice is rough, tender, full of something that makes my chest ache.

I stare at him.

At this man who knelt in front of me hours ago and offered me forever.

At this man who transformed his home into a fairy tale just to see me smile.

At this man who’s looking at me now like I’m the most precious thing in any world.

I can’t speak. My throat is too tight.

So I nod. Slowly. Surely. Once.

His fingers move again.

They find the first button of my shirt. He works it open with the same calm deliberation he used on his own.

Then the next.

Then the next. His fingers brush my skin each time—small, accidental touches that feel anything but accidental.

The shirt falls open. He slides it from my shoulders, down my arms, letting it join his on the floor.

I’m bare before him now.

His eyes trace over my skin—my pale chest, my shoulders, the soft curve of my waist.

There’s no hurry in him.

He looks at me like I’m something beautiful. Something worth looking at.

His hand returns to my chest. His palm presses flat against my heart, feeling its wild rhythm.

Then his other hand lifts, and he takes mine—still clenched in the sheets—and gently, carefully, guides it to his chest.

He presses my palm against his skin.

He’s so warm. His body is alive beneath my hand, heartbeat steady and strong, skin soft over firm muscle.

I can feel him breathing. I can feel him waiting.

"Zyren." His voice breaks the silence, soft as candlelight.

"Touch me."

I look at him. At his dark eyes, patient and burning. At his lips, slightly parted. At the way the candlelight makes everything golden.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

But my fingers move. Just a little. A small exploration of the skin beneath them.

He closes his eyes. Just for a moment. When he opens them, they’re brighter.

Wetter.

Then he leans in again.

His lips find mine.

The candles flicker. The roses surround us.

The world outside ceases to exist.

There’s only him. Only this. Only us.