Five Nights With Tiago 🌃 - Part 1 | 🍑 PT Exclusive Story (Patreon)

All characters depicted in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Everything portrayed is safe, sane, and consensual.

Part 1: The City and the Boy Who Waited

I landed in Lisbon just after five, the sky turning a soft honey colour beyond the runway. The moment I stepped out of the airport the air felt different. Warmer, almost salty, carrying a hint of the river even from this distance. London had been cold and grey when I left, sharp winds cutting along the Thames. Here, everything breathed slower. Even the taxi rank outside moved at an easy rhythm, drivers chatting with gentle smiles, the little rattle of Portuguese phrases floating in the air around them.

The ride to the hotel carried me past the first impressions of the city. Terracotta roofs scattered across hills, tiled facades glowing under the early evening light, narrow streets winding between old stone buildings. It felt foreign in a way that was comforting, as though the entire place wanted me to take my time. The Tagus appeared in quick glimpses, wide and calm, a line of soft gold stretching across its surface.

Five days, I reminded myself. Five days of high stakes negotiations, delicate investors, and a schedule that left very little room for the sort of mischief a place like this seemed built for. Still, being away from London offered its own quiet relief. No obligations once meetings ended, no eyes on me, no expectations to be the man everyone assumed I was. Just a city I hardly knew and a hotel room that would, hopefully, make comfort a sin.

The car pulled into the circular driveway of the riverside hotel a few minutes later. Glass walls, soft golden lighting, a tall fountain beside the entrance. Everything felt polished without being cold. A uniformed greeter opened my door, offering a polite smile and a welcome that came from the chest rather than the mouth.

Inside, the lobby was all marble, warm wood, and quiet music drifting from hidden speakers. The sort of place that absorbed stress from the shoulders before a person even reached the lift. A woman at the reception desk checked me in with an ease that suggested she had already memorised my name. She informed me, gently and with pride, that the suite had been prepared with a river view.

A bell staff member guided me upstairs, opening the door to a room that looked far too indulgent for someone travelling alone. Floor to ceiling windows framed the Tagus like a painting. The river stretched out in broad strokes of silver and soft yellow, small boats drifting across in slow arcs. A large bed sat in the centre of the room, dressed in white linen so crisp it almost glowed. There was a private balcony, a marble bathroom, and a seating area filled with soft navy and beige furnishings. Even the scent in the room was inviting, a faint blend of citrus and something warm, perhaps cedar.

I slipped out of my jacket and loosened my shirt collar before stepping onto the balcony. The breeze rolled across my skin, warm enough to make me exhale. Lisbon’s skyline shimmered in the distance, lights beginning to flicker on across the hills. I stood there long enough for a sense of quiet to settle inside me. I had forgotten how much I needed that. In London, silence always came with the weight of expectation. Here, silence felt clean.

After a shower and a change into fresh clothes, I headed downstairs. I needed transport for the meeting with my colleague. The lobby was calmer now, a few guests drifting in and out, soft chatter by the bar. I approached the reception desk and the concierge greeted me with an expression that was almost welcoming enough to be familiar.

“Good evening, Mr Harrington. How may I assist you?”

“I need a reliable way to get to my meeting,” I said. “I’ll be needing travel arrangements for the rest of my trip too. Something professional, not a last-minute taxi if possible.”

The concierge smiled as though she had been waiting for that request. “Of course. Your business partners have already made arrangements. You have a private car and chauffeur assigned to you for the entirety of your stay.”

I paused. “Have I?”

“Yes, sir. He can be ready now.”

There was something quietly flattering about the idea of being assigned my own driver. I nodded and the concierge lifted the phone, speaking softly in Portuguese before setting it down.

“He is on his way up,” she said.

I turned slightly, expecting some older professional man in uniform, the typical image that comes to mind when one hears the word chauffeur. Instead, the lift doors opened and someone entirely different stepped out.

A young man walked through the lobby with a calm, measured stride, dressed in a fitted black shirt tucked into slim dark trousers. The shirt hugged his shoulders in a way that made the lines of his body impossible not to notice. His hair was dark, a little longer on top, with a soft wave that fell naturally. Brown eyes, warm and bright even under the soft lights. Full lips, smooth tan skin, strong jawline softened by a youthful gentleness.

He looked no older than twenty, athletic in a way that suggested sport rather than gym vanity. Beautiful was the first word that came to mind, though I kept that thought buried deep. He slowed as he approached the desk, his gaze lowered for a brief moment before he looked up at me.

“Mr Harrington?” His voice was soft, lightly accented, warm enough that it brushed across the skin.

I felt the pull immediately. “Yes. And you are?”

“My name is Tiago,” he said quietly, as if unsure how loudly he was allowed to speak around me. “I will be your driver for the week.”

There was something almost shy in the way he held his posture, but it was paired with a steadiness that came from discipline. A boy learning how to stand like a man. A man who did not realise yet how striking he was.

“Well. It is good to meet you, Tiago,” I said, keeping my voice gentle.

He offered a small nod and gestured toward the glass doors. “If you would like, sir, I can take you to your meeting location, The car is ready.”

The way he said sir did something to my chest that I chose to ignore.

I followed him outside. The evening air had cooled slightly, the street glowing with reflections from the river. A polished black luxury sedan waited beside the curb, its surface shining under the streetlamps. Tiago moved with quiet confidence as he reached the car, opening the back door for me with a smooth, practiced motion.

“Please,” he said, stepping aside so I could enter.

I took my seat in the back, aware of how close he came as he leaned in to check that everything inside was set to comfort. His scent brushed the air for a moment, subtle, clean, a hint of something warm beneath it.

He closed the door gently once he was sure I was settled. I watched him circle to the driver’s seat, the soft glow of the hotel lights catching on the shape of his shoulders.

This city might prove far too interesting.

_Tiago switched on the engine and the interior came alive with a soft glow. A gentle wash of Portuguese guitar slipped from the speakers, something slow and warm, the sort of music that seemed to blend into the night instead of cutting through it. The city unfolded ahead of us, lights reflected in the gloss of the windscreen as we began to move.

I settled back into the seat and tried, unsuccessfully, not to stare too much. The silhouette of him in the front seat was almost distracting. His shoulders carried a natural strength, something athletic yet unintentional. His posture was upright but relaxed, the faintest curve in his back when he checked the mirror. Every so often the dim lights from passing streetlamps highlighted the shape of his jaw, clean and sharp, tightening just a little when he focused on the traffic.

His hands were the first thing I found myself watching. Long fingers, strong but elegant, guiding the wheel with barely any effort. The wheel dipped and turned under his touch like it knew better than to resist him. A soft flex ran through his forearms when he shifted gears. The black shirt he wore stretched just enough across his shoulders to give hints of the body beneath. Not vain. Not showy. Just warm, fit, young. Too young for me to stare at the way I was staring, but there I was all the same.

Every few seconds he glanced at me in the rear view mirror. Quick, almost accidental looks. As if he needed to check his passenger but did not want to be caught looking too long. As if he had been instructed to stay professional yet found it harder than he expected. I pretended not to notice. A man learns to do that. But I felt every stolen look like a spark passing through the distance between us.

It was ridiculous how aware I was of him already.

We moved deeper into Lisbon and the streets began to narrow. Alfama wrapped around us in tight curls of cobblestone and history. Tiled walls shimmered under streetlights, each facade telling its own story in blues and whites and greens. Laundry hung between buildings on thin ropes. Elderly couples sat outside small bars with plastic cups of vinho verde. The sort of neighbourhood that lived by its own rules and always had.

The car slowed along a tighter street. A small cafe glowed with amber light on the corner, locals laughing softly at a table outside. We passed it inch by inch, catching the warmth of it for one brief moment. Tiago looked into the rear view mirror again, and this time the glance lingered. Not long enough to be inappropriate, but long enough that I felt it below my ribs.

Beautiful, I thought quietly. The boy is beautiful.

I kept that line locked deep. My face stayed calm, my body relaxed into the leather. But my pulse had shifted. This was meant to be a simple business trip. Yet the air in the car felt charged, almost alive, as if the city itself had placed something between us.

The first meeting location came into view, a modern office building near the river. Tiago guided the car to a stop with impressive precision and got out before I reached for the handle. He rounded the vehicle quickly and opened the door for me, stepping close enough that I caught the warmth of his breath for a moment. His eyes met mine, soft brown deepened by the night.

“I will wait here, sir,” he said quietly.

I nodded. “I will not be long.”

Inside the meeting room, talk of figures and projections felt strangely distant. My mind should have been calculating margins and weighing risks, but it kept returning to the car outside. To the boy in the black shirt. To the soft glances, the posture, the subtle electricity sitting beneath every polite phrase.

When I stepped out again, Tiago was right where I expected him to be. Standing beside the car with his hands joined behind his back, posture formal but expression warm. As soon as he saw me he moved forward to open the door.

“Everything go well, sir?” he asked softly as I slid inside.

“Well enough,” I replied. “Thank you for waiting.”

“It is my job,” he said, but the tone held something deeper. Not resentment or burden. Something almost like pride.

The drive back felt different. Night had taken the city fully by then, and Lisbon glowed with a kind of tenderness. Yellow lights rippled on the river. Trams rolled along their tracks with a soft hum. Windows of old apartments flickered with domestic warmth. The air outside was warmer than inside the car, and a faint mist collected on the edges of the glass, fogging slightly before clearing with each breath of the air conditioning.

The music played quietly, something slow and rhythmic. I watched the outline of Tiago’s shoulders again. The subtle rise and fall of his breathing. His hands, steady on the wheel. He glanced toward me in the mirror once more, but this time the look lingered a second too long. A flicker of something unguarded crossed his face before he forced his eyes back to the road.

By the time we reached the hotel, the tension in the car had settled into something almost physical. Not spoken. But unmistakably there.

We stopped at the entrance and Tiago stepped out to open the door for me. I stood beside him in the warm night air, only a foot of space between us. The hotel lights cast a soft halo around him, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone and the faint sheen on his lips.

“Thank you,” I said. “Before I go in, what time do you start tomorrow? I do not want to get late for my meetings.”

He shook his head slightly, lowering his voice.  “You do not have to worry, sir. I am assigned only to you for the whole week. I will be waiting whenever you need me.”

The words struck something inside my chest. Waiting for me. Only me. Spoken with that shy steadiness of his, the tone respectful but heavy with something he probably did not even realise he was giving away.

I held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. “Very well. I will see you tomorrow then.”

He stepped back, hands clasped behind him again, expression returning to professional calm.

“Good night, sir.”

The way he said it carried warmth, soft and hesitant, just enough to linger in the air between us. I nodded once and walked inside. The glass doors slid shut behind me and muffled the outside world.

As I crossed the lobby, a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Not a wide one. Just the sort that comes when a man realises his trip abroad might be far more complicated than he planned. Four more nights with that cute boy.

And something told me that both were about to become a problem I was very willing to have.────────────────

Five Nights With Tiago 🌃 - Part 2 | 🍑 PT Exclusive Story