Chapter 3 Ethan
Chapter three
Ethan
“Do you own this?” I ask, in a state of shock after we get through security and are making our way up the steps to the eighty-foot luxury jet. My dad has a bigger private plane, but I don’t think a TV show host makes enough to buy one.
“No, it’s chartered,” Owen Fricking MacKenzie answers gruffly. He’s not happy to have me tagging along, and I’m trying not to freak out at realizing who, and what, he is.
More than a celebrity, he’s a serial killer.
I’ve watched his show and he often talks about the Fat Cat Killer with a straight face.
Sure, he discusses whether the killer is seeking vigilante justice—if killing bad men deserve the same punishment as innocents—but I never suspected it was him doing the killing.
I remember a moment where he speculated that there was no Fat Cat Killer, only rich men overdosing, and vow not to take any drugs offered to me.
I don’t want to die.
“Don’t speak to the staff,” he says in a commanding tone I can’t help but get hard from. Yeah, I have Daddy issues.
What was that word I found the other day? The one I used a private search-engine page for when I got turned on listening to a crime podcast. Hybristophilia: an attraction to criminals, especially serial killers.
Do I have that?
My mind reels as we buckle in for take-off. Besides the two pilots, there is only one person on staff, and the flight attendant skips the safety speech when MacKenzie slips him a couple hundred crisp bills.
After hurtling into the air, the captain announces seat belts can come off. Owen is up and unbuckling me before I have a chance to. He grabs my wrist in his large hand and drags me to the polished wooden door behind the seating area, opening it to reveal a bedroom.
My dick is very confused to be manhandled onto the bed and it’s crisp white comforter, and I decide I just have a fear boner. “What are you going to do with me? Are you going to kill me?” My questions have me trembling, and my erection deflates a little.
MacKenzie opens his jacket and loosens his tie, which he removes as he comes closer. He grabs me again to loop the expensive silk around my wrists, pinning my hands above my head and wrapping the material around the lamp affixed to the wall.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles under his breath as if he doesn’t mean for me to hear. As my abductor lifts his head, though, all traces of hesitancy are gone. The grey eyes staring back at me are no longer the charming gaze of a friendly talk show host. “Don’t move, or I might have to.”
If kidnapping me isn’t already a giant red flag that Owen MacKenzie is the Fat Cat Killer, I no longer have any doubts.
“O-okay,” I nod and bite my lip to keep it from quivering. Deciding talking isn’t in my best interest, I refrain from asking more questions.
Stepping back, MacKenzie loses his suit jacket and rolls his sleeves to reveal fit arms with a dusting of hair. “Who do you work for?”
His barked question pulls me back into the present and I feel my face scrunch up. “I was working a temp sous chef job tonight, but now I won’t get paid or asked back.”
MacKenzie growls to himself and leans over me, wrapping a hand around my neck. My dick takes notice again, and I am sure there is something very wrong with me. But then, I already knew that.
“You said you were trained by the CIA,” he clarifies. “Were you undercover?”
My laugh sputters out of me and his hand tightens, though not enough to cut off my air or ability to speak. “The Culinary Institute of America.”
MacKenzie blinks in confusion but doesn’t release my neck. “What?”
“It’s a school in New York,” I explain slowly, confused as to how he doesn’t know about it. “Not in the city, sadly, but it’s about halfway between Manhattan and the capital.”
“I know what the school–” He starts and cuts himself off, finally releasing me to take off his glasses and rub his eyes. “I thought…It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
“Wait. Did you think I was from the government?” I can’t help but laugh at the outlandish thought. “Yeah, no. I am not intelligence agency material. I didn’t even finish college, let alone culinary school.”
Rolling my eyes, I find myself pinned under MacKenzie’s weight before I can blink. One of his hands pins my bound wrists in place while the other throttles my neck again, cutting off blood flow. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, boy.”
MacKenzie’s thighs bracket my legs, lining up my semi with his own bulge. He’s not hard like me, but he didn’t seem opposed to a hook-up before I saw him kill that rich guy. Maybe I can use the attraction to my advantage and make it out of this situation alive.
Rolling my hips up so he can feel me, I ignore the dizziness settling into my mind from his tight hold. “Yes, Daddy.”
He doesn’t let me go, but his hand loosens. Black spots at the edge of my vision recede. “Don’t call me that.”
“What do you want me to call you?” I ask, licking my lips.
MacKenzie’s pupils go from tiny pinpricks to dilated with lust and I know I’m having an effect. He breathes in and out for a few beats, and I think he’s not going to answer when he finally whispers, “Sir. You call me Sir.”
Even before those delicious words, I found Owen MacKenzie hot. He is one of my biggest celebrity crushes. If he wants me to call him Sir, that’s what I will do. Thrusting my hips up as much as I can under his weight, I feel his dick hardening against mine.
“Yes, Sir,” I moan, playing it up. If I can seduce the man, he’s less likely to kill me, right? “What else do you want to do with me?”
“Fuck,” MacKenzie curses under his breath. There’s clearly some conflicted thoughts and emotions running through him, but I need to sway him towards the horny rather than the homicidal.
His hand moves from my neck to caress my full lower lip with his thumb.
The talk show host’s fingers are rougher than I expect from a man in his position, but then he isn’t an actor.
My mind races with the bits of information I know about him.
He’s a journalist, so he’s good at research and travels all over the world.
With such a busy life, I have to wonder when he fits in time for fun.
“I asked if you wanted to play when we met,” I point out. Lapping at the pad of his digit, I taste salt and the hint of leather from his gloves. A shiver runs through me remembering why he was wearing those gloves.
MacKenzie raises a brow and grips my jaw in one hand. “Oh, does that offer still stand?”
“If you want it to…” I trail off, letting him fill in the blanks. Somehow, the thought of sleeping with a killer is even more of a turn on than any old celebrity. “Sir.”
After staring at me for so long I think he’s going to leave me hanging, MacKenzie squeezes my jaw harder so that my mouth opens. “If you want to prove your usefulness—prove why I shouldn’t kill you, Ethan—you have to show me you want this.”
“How?” I ask, jaw hurting in his grasp.
“Tell me exactly what you want. Beg for it,” MacKenzie adds, and I feel a whimper leave my lips involuntarily.
My acting skills are crap, but I’m not going to need them to show this man I want him physically. My own safety be damned.