The Salon After Hours

Crown & Glory has been mine for fifteen years.

I built this salon from nothing—a chair in my mama's kitchen to a six-station empire on Fulton Street. Every natural hair queen in Bed-Stuy comes through my doors. We do silk presses, locs, braids, everything.

And I run it all myself.

At forty-five, I've earned every inch of this place. The leather chairs. The gold mirrors. The reputation.

What I haven't earned is the way my new shampoo boy makes me feel.

Darius showed up three months ago, needing a job.

He's my goddaughter's friend from community college—twenty-two, fresh-faced, eager to learn the business. "He's good with his hands," Niecy told me. "Just give him a chance, Auntie Keisha."

Good with his hands was an understatement.

The boy has magic fingers. Every client requests him for their wash. He works the scalp like he's playing piano, finding tension spots no one knew they had.

And every time he works on me?

I have to cross my legs and think about inventory.

It's Saturday, closing time.

The other stylists have gone home. Just me and Darius, sweeping up hair, wiping down stations. I sent him to do the back while I count the register.

"Miss Keisha?"

His voice floats from the shampoo area. I walk back to find him holding a bottle of the new deep conditioner.

"Should I put this in the back or leave it out?"

"Leave it. We've got two naturals coming Monday who need it."

He nods, sets it down. I'm about to turn away when he speaks again.

"You seem tense."

"Excuse me?"

"Your shoulders." He gestures. "They've been up by your ears all day. Sit down, let me work on you."

I should say no.

It's late. The shop is empty. And Darius... Darius is too young, too fine, too available for me to be alone with.

But my shoulders do hurt. And I am the boss.

"Five minutes," I say, settling into the shampoo chair.

"Yes ma'am."

He positions himself behind me, and those magic hands find my shoulders. I try not to groan but fail completely.

"Told you," he says, working a knot. "You carry everything here. All the stress."

"I own a business. Stress comes with the territory."

"Doesn't mean you have to hold onto it." His thumbs press into a spot that makes my whole body shudder. "You can let go sometimes, Miss Keisha. Let someone else carry it."

His hands move to my neck.

Long fingers spanning my throat, thumbs digging into the muscles at the base of my skull. I'm practically melting into the chair.

"That feel good?"

"Mmm." I can't manage actual words.

"I've wanted to do this for months," he admits quietly. "Touch you like this. You never let anyone take care of you."

"I don't need taking care of."

"Everyone does." His hands slide lower, down to my collarbone. "Even queens need someone to worship at their feet sometimes."

I should stop this.

He's my employee. He's half my age. He's Niecy's friend, for God's sake.

But his hands are moving to my chest now, and I'm not wearing a bra under this tunic, and when his fingers brush the sides of my breasts, I arch into the touch instead of pulling away.

"Darius..."

"Tell me to stop." His voice is rough. "If you want me to stop, I will."

I don't want him to stop.

"Lock the front door," I whisper.

He's back in thirty seconds.

"Miss Keisha—"

"It's just Keisha right now." I stand up, turn to face him. "And if we're doing this, I need you to understand something."

"What?"

"I'm not one of those little college girls you're used to." I gesture at my body—full breasts, thick waist, wide hips. "I'm forty-five. I've got stretch marks and cellulite and everything else."

"I know." He steps closer. "Why do you think I want you?"

"Excuse me?"

"I've been watching you for three months." His eyes roam over me, hungry. "The way you move, the way you command this place. And your body..." He groans. "I've been dreaming about getting my hands on those curves."

He kisses me.

Not tentative—confident. Like he's been planning this for a while. His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and I feel exactly how much he wants this.

"The chair," he murmurs against my mouth. "Sit back in the chair."

I do. He kneels in front of me, hands sliding up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher.

"Tell me you've thought about this," he says. "When I'm washing your hair. Tell me you've thought about me doing this."

"I've thought about it," I admit. "More than I should."

"Good." He pulls my panties to the side. "Then let me make it real."

His mouth finds me and I grab the armrests.

Twenty-two and he eats pussy like he wrote the manual. Long, slow licks that make me squirm, then quick flicks against my clit that make me scream.

"Fuck—Darius—"

"Taste so good," he groans against me. "Sweet and thick, just like I imagined."

My hands find his head, pressing him deeper. He doesn't resist—just works harder, tongue fucking me while his nose grinds against my clit.

"I'm gonna—"

"Do it. Come on my face, Keisha. Give it to me."

I come so hard I see stars.

He doesn't stop there.

Before I've recovered, he's pulling me up, turning me around, bending me over my own shampoo bowl.

"Been thinking about this ass," he says, palming both cheeks. "Every time you walk past my station. Wondering what it would look like bent over for me."

"Less talking," I manage. "More doing."

He laughs, and I hear his zipper.

When he pushes inside, I grip the porcelain and moan.

He's thick.

Fills me in a way I haven't been filled in years. My ex-husband was adequate, my occasional dates since then forgettable. But Darius—Darius fucks like he has something to prove.

"So tight," he groans, stroking deep. "How are you this tight?"

"It's been—ah—a while."

"Criminal." He picks up the pace. "Body like this, should be getting fucked every day."

"Is that—is that an offer?"

"That's a promise." He slaps my ass and I clench around him. "Every day after closing. This pussy is mine now."

The things this boy says.

The things he does.

He fucks me through two more orgasms, adjusting angles, finding spots I forgot I had. By the time he finally comes—pulling out, painting my ass with it—I'm a puddle.

"Jesus," I breathe.

"Darius," he corrects with a grin. "But I understand the confusion."

I laugh despite myself. He helps me up, gets paper towels to clean us both.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.

I should say no.

This is complicated. He works for me. The age gap. What Niecy would say if she found out.

But then he kisses my forehead—tender, sweet—and I think about how long it's been since anyone touched me like I mattered.

"Same time tomorrow," I agree. "But no more Saturday nights. I need at least one day to recover."

"Deal." He zips up, looking far too pleased with himself. "Does this mean I get a raise?"

"Boy, get out of my salon."

He's laughing as he heads for the door.

I finish closing up alone.

My legs are shaky. My body is pleasantly sore in ways it hasn't been in years. And my phone buzzes with a text from a number I've had for three months but never used.

Best Saturday ever. See you tomorrow, boss.

I lock the door, turn off the lights.

Tomorrow's Sunday—my only day off. But I'm already planning to stop by the salon.

Just to check on... things.

The Crown is mine.

And now, apparently, so is Darius.