A huge shadow darkened the ground beneath her feet, big enough to block the last of the sunlight. She glanced upward and gasped. The largest bird she’d ever seen, black as midnight, regal as royalty, passed overheard. Its shadow fell across where she stood and covered most of the pond as well. The flight path dipped low enough that she caught a good view of the creature’s head and beak. The bird’s profile had the beauty of a Michelangelo statue or an Audubon drawing. When it flapped its gigantic wings to soar higher and faster, she heard it squawk and one large black feather drifted lazily to the ground. It landed at her feet and although she normally wouldn’t touch something of the sort, Celia retrieved it. The ebony feather brushed soft as silk against her palm and she decided to keep it. She clutched it tight and craned her head to watch its flight westward, into the heart of the approaching storm. When it vanished among the dark clouds, she dashed for the house and wondered if she’d seen the Thunderbird.
Cool air rushed her as she moved inside, and although she’d meant to start cooking, Celia changed her mind. She didn’t have to obey a schedule or keep to a clock so the étouffé could wait. With her curiosity piqued about the mythical Thunderbird Angie had mentioned, she decided to set up her laptop and get connected instead. After a little deliberation, she set up on the dining room table. With no plans to have guests over for dinner, the large space suited her needs and within the hour, she’d managed to get connected using Angie’s notebook. She surfed the Internet to find out more about the bird while the feather, her proof, rested on the table.
More sightings than Celia could’ve guessed had been reported, and many were recent. So she wasn’t crazy and hadn’t imagined it. The meaning behind the huge feathered creature varied between tribes, but most considered it a symbol of power and glory. Some considered it the creator. A few websites reported it as a sign of transformation or a lucky omen. In many tribes the Thunderbird was considered the force behind thunderstorms and weather. Warlike tribes sometimes viewed it as an omen of battle but she decided they were the minority. “It’s sacred,” Celia muttered to herself and stared at an image she brought up from a book about the legendary bird. She searched for additional details and became so engrossed in research that she failed to notice the storm had arrived until the lights dimmed, then flickered. She shut down her computer and headed to the kitchen, hungry now.
The room provided a number of windows, some of which faced west, so Celia had a clear view of the weather. Jagged streaks of light flared in the deep clouds and thunder boomed overhead with enough force to rattle dishes in the cupboards. As the wind picked up, the trees swayed and bent in a pagan dance routine. Celia gathered her ingredients and by the time the rain fell in sheets, she had the onions, celery, garlic, and green peppers chopped. She managed not to nick her fingers in the process, something which made her proud because she hadn’t cooked like this in a long time. Celia had no recipe, save the one in her head, her mother and grandmother’s recipe, handed down over generations. She melted butter in a deep skillet and added flour to make a roux, stirring rapidly until it turned a rich, copper penny brown. Then she added the chopped vegetables. When they became tender, she added a bay leaf, the water, Cajun seasoning, some parsley, and the shrimp, which she’d peeled and deveined. The mixture came to a boil and delicious aromas began to rise from the skillet. She inhaled with pleasure as the rice cooked to perfection.
The thunder, the gusts of wind, and the heavy rain made a sort of music she worked with and by the time she sat down with her finished dish to eat, Celia decided the worst of the storm had past. She grabbed a spoon, tasted her efforts, and smiled. The étouffé delivered just the right combination of spice, heat, shrimp, and Cajun flavor. It pleasured her tongue. Before she could scoop a serving into a bowl, the doorbell rang with a long melodious chime. Out in the middle of a ranch in a very rural area, knowing no one, she expected Chuck, the ranch manager. She doubted that Nina, the housekeeper she had yet to meet, would show up this late or in such weather. Without fear and with total confidence that she’d open the door to find the grizzled cowboy on the porch, Celia turned the étouffé down to simmer and headed to the front door. She put on a smile to welcome him but her mouth drooped when she saw the visitor.
He stood more than six feet tall, with skin as bronzed as the roux she’d just made and straight black hair to his waist. His dark jeans and midnight black shirt were plastered to his body and so wet they dripped. The garments fit tight but she imagined how he’d look in full powwow regalia. No doubt about it, he was Native American, although she couldn’t begin to guess the tribe. Celia had always sworn she liked her men the way she took her coffee—dark, strong, and sweet. Her unexpected visitor was all three, she thought, as she stared at him with something like wonder. She gazed up into his mysterious dark eyes and her hunger shifted from Cajun cooking to a desire for something erotic. He met her stare and gave it back, potent as the storm that had just passed. “Hi, mon cher, what can I do for you?”
Aware she flirted, hell, even offered, Celia shouldn’t have been surprised when he stepped forward and without a word swept her into his arms. He smelled, she thought, of wind and rain and the outdoors. His skin touched hers with delicious warmth. The stranger locked her into a tight embrace as his mouth descended on hers with heat. Her brief protest vanished in the fire his lips transferred to Celia. Desire burned through her body with the power and speed of an out-of-control brush fire and her hands clung to his shoulders. Every inch of her body prickled and tingled as he kissed her with considerable skill. His mouth caressed and claimed as she yielded, her body melting. His kiss stole her breath and made her head whirl with dizziness. The man became the one stable fixture in her environment which shrunk to the space around them. Everything else blurred into insignificance as she surrendered to the moment.
His tongue strayed into her mouth and he French-kissed her, long and hard. Her twat moistened and her nipples hardened beneath the simple T-shirt she wore. Desire poured through Celia and her fingers clutched his shoulders, then wandered to his chest. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hand over the solid, taut flesh of his belly. Celia caressed his nipples and thrilled when each shifted from soft to stone beneath her touch. Without letting go, the man managed to thrust one hand down the back of her jeans and work his fingers until they stroked her pussy. The intimacy of his actions, combined with the brash boldness of what he did, stoked her desire as sweet, intense ripples rocked her body.
Celia would have laid down for him in the doorway, on the porch, or in the living room with careless, heedless abandon, but about the time she thought he’d take her, he withdrew. He stepped inside as she stared, breathing hard. “That,” he said in a voice so melodious, yet deep and so tempting she wanted to drown in it, “you can do that and more.”
Chapter Four
Celia trembled and stared at him, her legs unsteady after his wild kiss. Her heart pounded in her chest as if it’d been trapped there and needed to flee. His words made no sense for a moment until she realized he’d answered her initial question. She ought to be worried, outraged, or at least a little cautious after a stranger in the night kissed her the way no man ever had, but she wasn’t. Instead, she smiled. “I don’t know you are,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He held his head up, straight and proud. “You can call me Byrd,” he said. Before she could ask, he grinned. “That’s B-Y-R-D, by the way.”
Although he still hadn’t revealed what brought him to her door, she stuck out her hand. “I’m Celia Lecompte, Mr. Byrd. It’s, uh, a pleasure to meet you.” Her lips lingered over “pleasure” and the spark in his dark eyes told her he got the double entendre.
“Yes,” he replied. “It’s just Byrd, no Mister needed.” Dear Lord, I’d swoon like an old time Southern belle if he kept giving her that look—burning hot and chock full of passion. Celia focused on something practical to stay grounded, an effort certain to fail. “What brought you to the door tonight?”
&
nbsp; “I was passing over,” Byrd said. Over? Celia cocked her head and frowned. When he saw her expression, he changed what he’d said. “I was passing by,” he told her. “I’d…uh, heard you’d come and I wanted to meet you.”
Something didn’t jibe. Suspicion warred against her desire. “Do you live somewhere around here?” she asked in a much sharper tone. “And who’d you hear about me from?”
She could count the people who knew about her arrival on one hand with fingers remaining. Angie and her husband, Chuck the ranch manager, maybe Nina, although she’d yet to meet her, and, stretching it, the clerk at the supermarket. Four people and the first two were in Asia so they weren’t spreading the news. Taciturn Chuck didn’t seem like the kind to gossip either. Hmm. Maybe the nice lady at the tourism center talked but Celia couldn’t remember telling her where she lived. Byrd gazed at her with something like amusement.
“I don’t live around here, no, but I travel through here often. My home’s in the Black Hills. And you’ve got me. No one told me about you—I saw you down by the pond earlier.”
Relief came sweet and swift, then faded. “How could you have seen me there?” The site was secluded, she thought, and even if he’d been on adjacent property, she doubted he had a view. He laughed. “I was flying over.” She gaped at him. One second passed, then another, and a third. “Oh,” she said. “You’re a pilot?” Celia recalled the airplane she’d seen right before the sky clouded over. She’d flown a few times and remembered the excellent view possible from the air. Although she hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of the pilot from the air, Celia knew it had to be this man. Nothing else had flown over except the big dark bird. At the time, caught up in the moment, she’d thought it might be the Thunderbird. Now her notion seemed silly, although she hesitated for one moment. He said his name is Byrd. That’s strange, and he’s dark, sleek, and beautiful, just like the bird I saw. A cold shiver ran down her spine and the idea made her uneasy. Then she caught herself. How dumb, she thought. There’s no Thunderbird, just a big ass bird heading home ahead of the storm.
“I fly,” Byrd said simply. “You’re beautiful.” His direct flattery embarrassed her a little, but after the kiss they’d shared, her unease didn’t last long. “Thank you,” Celia said. “I was just fixin’ to eat some shrimp étouffé. Would you like to join me?”
He grinned. “I’d love it. I wondered what smelled so good.” “Then c’mon,” Celia told him and led him into the kitchen. She dished up two bowls with rice on the bottom and topped it with the spicy Cajun food. For a moment she wondered if they should dine in the kitchen but after brief consideration, Celia decided they could eat at the dining room table. She fished two spoons out of a drawer and tossed her head to indicate he should follow her. Byrd did and they sat across from one another. Without asking a blessing or saying anything more, he dipped his spoon into the étouffé and tasted it. “It’s good,” he said after a moment of consideration, head cocked to one side. “It’s been some time since I’ve eaten anything so delicious.”
“Merci beaucoup.” His compliment pleased her all the way into bayou French. “One of the things I do best is cook, at least when I’m in the mood, mon cher.”
Byrd ate more and said, “What else do you do best, winuhca?”
“I might show you after awhile, sugar,” she said in her laziest Louisiana accent. “But what’s that you just called me?” He raised his head and his dark eyes, bright and intent, met hers. “Woman, more or less,” he said. “But more, too. It’s Lakota.”
“Are you Lakota?” She remembered Lakota was one band of the Sioux tribe. Byrd shrugged his shoulders. “I’m many things,” he said. “I visit many peoples and speak a lot of languages. I live in Lakota country when I’m home, though, and I have some ties to them so yes, if you like.”
There wasn’t anything about this man she didn’t like. “I do,” Celia told him with straightforward honesty. Although she’d looked forward to eating the étouffé, she doubted she’d have noticed if she’d eaten plain bread and butter. Her focus remained riveted to Byrd. “I’m Cajun myself.”
“Mais oui,” Byrd said. “I could tell.” She stared, then asked, “How?” He grinned. “It was a combination of your last name, your looks, your accent, and the way you drop a little French into your conversation along with the food. Simple.”
Celia supposed it was easy to tell, when he put it like that. “You’ve figured me out,” she said. “But you’re a little bit more difficult, it seems.” Byrd tilted his head, a gesture she’d begun to find appealing. “How’s that?” Answering his question could be tricky so she stalled with another bite of the delicious seafood dish.
“Well,” she said after a little bit. “You’ve pegged me right down to my ethnic background and all I know about you is that you travel a lot, that your home, when you’re there, is in the Black Hills, so we’re talking South Dakota. And I know that you’re at least part Native American—maybe Lakota, maybe not.” And here’s hoping you’re gonna’ tell me all about your life ‘cause I’m dying to know.
Byrd swallowed and dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “That sums it up well enough, I reckon.”
“Do you?” Celia said, abandoning any pretense at caution or being discreet. “I’d like to know more.”
“Do tell.” He didn’t act perturbed but amused, which irked and intrigued her. “Well, I would,” she said in self-defense. “There’s stuff I’d like to know before we, well…uh, get better acquainted.” He chuckled. “Such as what?”
Celia had a long list: Are you married? Do you have a woman or women in your life? Are you rich or poor? Do you have family? Kids? A dog or maybe a cat? She didn’t dare ask it all, so she sighed.
“Oh, just things like whether you’re single or attached, if you’re gonna’ walk in here tonight and stay, or if you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again.”
“Fair enough,” Byrd said. He’d finished his meal and thrust the empty bowl aside. “I’m single, no wife, no significant other, not even a girlfriend at the moment. As for after tonight, I don’t know and neither do you. I like to live in the moment and I’m here so the possibilities are endless and they’re ours.”
As far as she could tell, he spoke with honesty. His dark eyes shimmered with light, reminding her of the first faint light of morning or the last glimmer of dusk. Celia exchanged glances and nodded. A shiver of anticipation teased down her spine. “Then ‘laissez le bon temps roule’!” Let the good times roll, and if they lasted after tonight, c’est sie bon, and if not, then so be it.
In response he rose, pushed back the chair, and stepped back. Whether he reached for her or she came forward, Celia didn’t know or care. One moment they stood face to face, a few feet apart, and then he wrapped her in his arms. Heat blazed to life between her head and twat, a fire not started with the spicy food. This erotic burn spread outward and down until it consumed Celia. Just one thing would drown it, quench the fire, and she sought it. Her arms latched onto his shoulders, then clasped together behind his head. Byrd held her tight and close. They clutched one another, bodies pressed into one. His rank man-smell infused her with instant lust and his desire rolled toward her in waves. It enveloped her and she yielded without any fight. His eyes held hers with a piercing gaze and then he bent his head with a slow, graceful movement. Byrd’s mouth latched onto her lips with purpose and a steady pull. He wrapped his arms around her, almost like a dark cloak or wings, she thought, as her senses drowned in the intensity of his kiss.
Byrd stretched the kiss out long and slow, his mouth touching hers as delicate as a fluttering butterfly, soft as a fragile flower. Celia gave back what he offered and let his tender mouth caresses fuel her desire. He slipped his mouth from her lips and let it glide along the fine skin of her throat. Byrd used his teeth as he moved lower and he paused to nibble at the side of her neck with enough force she knew he’d leave a love mark behind. His fingers worked at the buttons on her blouse and undid them. Celia rem
oved it faster than a snake shedding skin and bared her tits. He reached the valley between her breasts and the point of his nose poked at her flesh, sharper than she expected.
His tongue emerged to lick a trail downward. Byrd changed direction long enough to first lick, then suck her nipples, one at a time. Mon dieu! He delivered such sweet agony and showed no indication he’d quit anytime soon. Each tongue stroke caused pleasure to erupt across her sensitive skin and run through her body like electricity. Byrd reached the waistband of her jeans and paused. Celia fumbled to undo them with frantic hands but he reached out and caught her fingers. “Easy, there. We’ve got plenty of time. Let’s do this right, woman.”
Right, wrong, here, there, she didn’t care. “I’m trying,” she gasped. He chuckled. “Bedroom works better. We might as well do it in comfort.” Before Celia could process her thoughts or speak, Byrd swept her into his arms and took a swift path into the bedroom. Later she’d wondered how he’d known where it was located but in the moment she didn’t care. Once there, he undid her jeans and she stepped out of them. Byrd’s large hands maneuvered the silken panties down her legs as she clawed the shirt from his body. He picked up where he’d stopped, his mouth hovering just above her mound, and she trembled with anticipation.
He backed her toward the bed and she sat down, then laid back with her legs spread wide. He bent between them and lowered his mouth to her flesh. Celia thought she’d surely die when his feverish breath blew hot against her skin. He kissed her there and then used his tongue with such skill her body shuddered with bliss. She whimpered with pleasure and he lifted his head to kiss her mouth. His lips tasted of her cunt, salty, and somehow strange to her but damn, she liked it. Then, without any further foreplay, Byrd slammed his cock into her willing pussy with the power of a thunderstorm. He impacted her as if she’d been hit by lightning. Wild circles of delight erupted through her and she bucked against him, greedy for more. They humped, their bodies slapping flesh to flesh until he reared back, dived deeper, and brought her to a shuddering climax that had her screaming. He quivered as thoroughly as she and when they shivered to a stop, they were both breathing hard and fast. They lay tangled in the sheets, the sweet stickiness of come puddled beneath them.
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