The Natural Hair Expo
"She's the keynote speaker at the biggest natural hair event of the year. He's the photographer who can't stop shooting her. What develops in the hotel room isn't just chemistry."
NaturallyNoire has 2.3 million followers.
That's me—Shantel Wright, natural hair influencer, product developer, and keynote speaker at this year's CurlCon Houston.
I've built an empire teaching Black women to love their hair.
What I haven't figured out is how to let anyone love me.
The expo floor is chaos.
Vendors, fans, photo ops, panel discussions. I've been going nonstop since 7 AM, and my locs are wilting despite my best product.
"Ms. Wright?" A voice, smooth and deep. "I'm Marcus Chen. I'm photographing for Essence."
I turn, and my throat goes dry.
He's tall, mixed maybe—Black and something else—with locs longer than mine and a camera that looks like it costs more than my first car.
"You've been shooting me all day," I say.
"You're hard to look away from."
He's not wrong.
I'm wearing kente print, my locs are twisted into a crown, and I've been told my stage presence is "commanding." But his attention feels different.
Less about the brand.
More about me.
"Can I get a private shoot?" he asks. "For the cover feature."
"Now? I have a panel in an hour—"
"After. Say, 7 PM? There's a rooftop here with great light."
I should say no. I'm exhausted, and this man is too fine to be professional around.
"7 PM," I agree.
The rooftop is stunning.
Houston skyline, golden hour light, Marcus setting up equipment like he's conducted a hundred of these shoots.
"Just be natural," he says. "Do what you do."
"What do I do?"
"Inspire people." He lifts his camera. "Let me capture it."
He shoots for an hour.
Adjusts my hair, my position, the light. His hands are gentle when they touch me—professional, but lingering.
"You're tense," he notices.
"Long day."
"That's not it." He lowers the camera. "You're comfortable on stage but uncomfortable being seen. Why?"
No one's ever asked me that.
"I know how to perform," I admit. "NaturallyNoire is a character. But this..." I gesture between us. "This feels real."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know." I meet his eyes. "I've spent so long building the brand, I'm not sure who's left underneath."
He's quiet for a moment. Then:
"I'd like to find out."
He kisses me as the sun sets.
Right there on the rooftop, between camera equipment and the Houston skyline. His hands cup my face like I'm precious, and his mouth moves against mine like he has all the time in the world.
"This is unprofessional," I gasp.
"I'll delete it from my schedule." He smiles against my lips. "Come downstairs with me."
His hotel room is two floors below.
We barely make it through the door before his hands are in my hair, carefully loosening the locs from their crown.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs.
"We met twelve hours ago."
"I've been following your account for two years." He spreads my locs across my shoulders. "You're why I pitched this assignment."
He undresses me like he's unwrapping art.
Each layer removed with reverence, his photographer's eye appreciating every reveal. When I'm finally naked, he steps back and looks.
"God," he breathes. "You're more beautiful than any picture."
"Marcus..."
"Let me capture this." He reaches for his camera. "Just for us. Just for you to see yourself the way I see you."
I've never let anyone photograph me naked.
But something about his voice, his eyes, makes me trust him. I lie on the bed while he shoots—tasteful, artistic, all shadow and curve.
"Touch yourself," he says softly.
"What?"
"For the shot. Show me the woman behind the brand."
I close my eyes and let my hand drift.
The camera clicks softly as I explore my own body—breasts, belly, between my thighs. It should feel exposed.
It feels powerful.
"Enough." He sets the camera down. "I need to touch you."
He joins me on the bed, and his mouth traces the path my hands made. Kisses my neck, my collarbone, the heavy swell of my breasts.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin.
"It's been a while since anyone—"
"Shh." He moves lower. "Let me make up for their failures."
His mouth between my legs is revelation.
He eats me like he photographs—attentive to every detail, adjusting angle and pressure until everything is perfect. I come twice before he lets me catch my breath.
"Ready for me?" he asks.
"God, yes."
He slides inside me, and we both groan.
"Perfect fit," he says.
"Stop analyzing and move."
He laughs, and he moves—deep, steady strokes that have me gripping the sheets.
"That's it," he encourages. "Show me who you really are."
I show him.
All the parts I hide behind content and conferences. The desperation, the desire, the woman who's been alone too long. He takes it all and gives back more.
"So beautiful," he keeps saying. "So real."
"Marcus—I'm going to—"
"Do it. I want to see it. Want to feel it."
I come screaming his name.
He follows moments later, buried deep, my name on his lips.
We collapse together, his camera forgotten, the world outside irrelevant.
"Will you show me the photos?" I ask later.
He scrolls through his camera, turns it so I can see.
I don't recognize myself.
Not NaturallyNoire—just Shantel. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Real.
"This is how you see me?"
"This is who you are." He kisses my forehead. "The brand is impressive. The woman is extraordinary."
CurlCon ends the next day.
We exchange numbers, promise to keep in touch.
Three weeks later, he's on my doorstep in Atlanta.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you."
"I have 2.3 million followers. They'll talk."
"Let them." He takes my hand. "The best pictures tell true stories. Let's make one together."
NaturallyNoire introduces her partner six months later.
The comments section explodes—mostly positive, some jealous, all engaged.
But the photos that matter aren't public.
They're in a private folder on Marcus's camera.
A woman learning to be seen.
A man happy to witness.
A love story developing in real time.