Shadow Heat
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Prologue
Romantic Sex Story: Prologue - In snow-swept Manhattan, haunted Detective Rikki Fire probes a billionaire's locked-room murder marked by a glowing occult sigil. Suspect: alluring witch Sophia Voss, whose defiant surrender sparks irresistible desire. As living shadows hunt them, charged interrogations ignite passionate power play—silk ropes, commands, vulnerability forging unbreakable trust. Amid red herrings and a midnight ritual clash, their love—forged in fire, sealed in surrender—burns brighter than any dark magic.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Fiction Paranormal Magic Demons BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Light Bond Rough Spanking Analingus Masturbation Oral Sex Pegging Sex Toys Squirting Big Breasts Public Sex Slow
They don’t call her Rikki Fire because it sounds good on a book jacket.
They call her that because when she walks into an interrogation room, the air itself seems to ignite. The fluorescent lights feel harsher, the metal table colder, the silence heavier. Suspects find their shirts sticking to their backs before she even speaks. Witnesses who swore they saw nothing suddenly recall the color of a getaway car, the glint of a knife, the exact tremor in a killer’s voice. Lawyers check their watches, clear their throats, and pray for a plea deal that will spare them the full force of her gaze.
Rikki Fire—born Catherine James—earned the name the hard way.
It was a freezing February night twelve years ago. A warehouse in Red Hook had become a trap for a serial arsonist who’d torched six buildings and taken eight lives. Catherine, then a freshly minted detective, had chased him inside alone after her backup lost him in the smoke. Flames roared thirty feet high, eating oxygen, turning the air to glass. She found him on the catwalk, gasoline can in hand, laughing as the roof groaned above them.
She tackled him through a wall of Fire. They crashed to the concrete below, her shoulder dislocating on impact. She cuffed him with one hand while the building collapsed around them. When the Fire crews finally pulled her out, she was dragging the unconscious killer behind her—hair singed to her scalp on one side, soot streaking her face, blood running from a cut above her eye that definitely wasn’t hers.
A tabloid photographer caught the moment she emerged into the floodlights: silhouette against roaring orange, eyes burning brighter than the blaze itself. The headline the next morning screamed FIRESTORM COP CLAIMS ARSON DEMON. The nickname stuck like accelerant on dry wood.
She never fought it.
Catherine James grew up in a narrow row house in Astoria, Queens, where the smell of her father’s firefighting gear mingled with her mother’s library books. Her father, Thomas James, spent thirty years running into burning buildings for Ladder 28, coming home smelling of smoke and adrenaline, teaching his only daughter that fear was just fuel if you knew how to use it. Her mother, Eleanor, was head librarian at the neighborhood branch—quiet, fierce, the kind of woman who could silence a room with a raised eyebrow and who read Catherine bedtime stories about women who solved riddles and outwitted monsters.
That world shattered on a rainy October evening in 2007, when Catherine was nineteen and home from her sophomore year at NYU.
She had come back early for the weekend—surprise visit, carrying takeout from their favorite Greek place on Ditmars Boulevard. The house was dark when she arrived, which was odd; her mother always left the porch light on. The front door was unlocked. That was the first wrong note.
Inside, the air smelled of copper and wet leaves. Catherine called out—”Mom? Dad’s shift ends at eight, I brought souvlaki!”—her voice echoing too loudly in the quiet.
She found Eleanor in the kitchen.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.