Used by the Diplomat

Beginning

Used by the Diplomat

The humidity of the South American capital seemed to cling to the reinforced glass windows of the diplomatic compound, a constant reminder of the volatile world just outside the gates.

For Mike and Jessie, both twenty something junior risk analysts eager to prove their worth to the state department, this assignment was supposed to be a career defining opportunity.

Instead, it felt like a gilded cage. Political unrest in the surrounding sectors meant the embassy was under a strict level four security lockdown; no staff were permitted to leave the heavily guarded perimeter without an armored escort.

They were entirely confined to the employee quarters—a complex of private rooms, shared offices, and communal living spaces.

To make matters worse, they absolutely despised each other.

"If we don't align our data before the morning briefing with the Deputy Chief of Mission, we’re going to look like complete amateurs," Mike said, setting his laptop down on the polished mahogany table of their shared workspace.

He offered a polite, constructive smile, genuinely trying to clear the air for the sake of the project.

"I was thinking we could merge our economic impact summaries first."

Jessie didn't even look up from her screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard with aggressive precision.

"Your economic summaries are based on outdated metrics, Mike. If I use your numbers, I'll be actively sabotaging my own presentation. I’ve already drafted the final report, and I’ll be delivering it myself. "

Mike’s jaw tightened, the blood rushing to his ears. "This is a joint assignment, Jessie. We’re supposed to be managing this issue together. Your supervisors want to see teamwork, not a solo performance."

"My supervisors want results," she countered smoothly, finally casting a cold, dismissive glance in his direction.

"And frankly, I don't have the time to hold your hand through a basic regional assessment.

Stay out of my way during the morning meeting, and I won't have to correct you in front of the whole embassy. "

The briefing the following morning went exactly as Jessie intended.

Every time Mike attempted to provide context on the local political factions, Jessie seamlessly cut him off, presenting her own data over his and rewriting the narrative to make his contributions seem entirely redundant.

She ignored his insights, bypassed his talking points, and treated him like an inconvenient piece of office furniture.

To the senior diplomats in the room, it looked like Jessie was driving the analytical cart while Mike was merely riding shotgun.

By the end of the first week of lockdown, the professional animosity had completely bled into their off-hours.

The employee quarters weren't large enough to avoid someone permanently, yet Jessie managed to treat Mike like a ghost the moment the clock struck five.

If he walked into the communal kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, she would set her mug down and exit without a single word.

If they crossed paths in the narrow, carpeted hallways of the residential wing, she would stare straight ahead, her expressions completely blank, completely shutting him down.

Mike’s initial desire to be civil completely evaporated, replaced by a deep, burning resentment.

He was stuck in a high-pressure foreign environment, isolated from the rest of the world due to the riots outside the gates, and forced to share a roof with a woman who treated him like garbage during the day and acted like he didn't exist at night.

He stopped trying to be nice. He stopped offering to collaborate.

He checked his politeness at the door and matched her cold energy with a harsh, silent contempt of his own.

But confinement does strange things to the mind, and the absolute wall of tension between them was about to shift in a direction neither of them anticipated.

The confinement of the embassy quarters was starting to wear heavily on Mike’s sanity.

By midnight, the quiet hum of the building’s industrial air conditioning was the only sound echoing through the secure corridors.

The political unrest outside the gates had settled into a tense, unpredictable silence, but inside Mike’s chest, a different kind of frustration was boiling over.

He needed an outlet for the resentment that had been building all week, and the small employee fitness center in the basement of the residential wing was the only place to find it.

The gym was entirely empty when he arrived.

It was a utilitarian space—concrete walls painted a sterile off-white, a row of heavy free weights, a couple of treadmills, and a universal cable machine.

Mike stripped off his damp gray t-shirt, tossing it onto a bench, and walked over to the heavy iron dumbbells.

He was built broad and dense, a physique earned from years of disciplined lifting that his structured government suits usually concealed.

He started with heavy overhead presses, his muscles burning as he forced the iron upward.

Droplets of sweat tracked down the center of his chest, carving paths through the light dusting of hair before pooling at the waistband of his dark athletic shorts.

His shoulders capped with deep ridges under the harsh fluorescent lighting, and the thick veins in his forearms throbbed with every grueling repetition.

He wasn’t just working out; he was violently purging the memory of Jessie’s smug, dismissive face from the morning’s briefing.

He had just dropped the weights back onto the rubber matting with a heavy, metallic clang when the glass door of the gym clicked open.

Mike didn't turn around immediately, wiping his brow with the back of his arm as he caught his breath.

But when he finally glanced toward the entrance, he found Jessie standing completely frozen in the doorway.

She was dressed in a tight black sports bra and form fitting spandex shorts, her hair tied up in a high, messy ponytail.

She had clearly come down to use one of the treadmills to burn off her own midnight restlessness, but the sight of Mike had stopped her dead in her tracks.

For the first time since they had arrived in South America, Jessie wasn't looking at him with cold disdain.

Her eyes were wide, darting hungrily across the raw expanse of his bare torso.

She took in the heavy, powerful slope of his chest, the defined ridges of his six pack, and the way his lat muscles flared like wings as he reached for a towel.

Her breath hitched, her lips parting slightly as a sudden, intense flush crept up her neck, completely betraying how deeply affected she was by the sight of him.

Seeing her gaze linger, Mike felt a surge of cold irritation. The last thing he wanted was her judgmental presence invading his only sanctuary.

"If you're here to critique my form, save it for the morning report, Jessie," Mike said, his voice dropping into a harsh, mocking rumble. He didn't bother putting his shirt back on, intentionally letting his large frame dominate the space as he stepped past her to grab his water bottle.

Jessie didn't snap back with her usual sharp, analytical venom.

Instead, her eyes tracked the movement of his chest as he swallowed the water, her gaze locked onto the rhythm of his throat.

A heavy, thick silence settled into the humid air of the basement gym.

The professional, icy barrier she had spent a week building was visibly fracturing under a wave of sudden, undeniable arousal.

She was completely turned on, her body reacting instantly to the raw, masculine energy radiating off the coworker she claimed to despise.

"I didn't come here to argue, Mike," she murmured, her voice sounding noticeably softer, completely devoid of its usual defensive edge.

She took a slow, deliberate step closer to him, her eyes tracing the line of sweat running down his lower abdomen.

"I didn't realize anyone else would be down here this late. "

"Yeah, well, some of us actually need a break from your constant bullshit," Mike replied coldly.

He snapped his towel over his shoulder, entirely unimpressed by her sudden change in demeanor.

After a week of being publicly humiliated and privately ignored, he had absolutely zero interest in making nice, even if she was looking at him like she wanted to devour him right there on the gym floor.

"The treadmills are all yours. I’m done. "

He made a move to walk past her toward the exit, his bare arm brushing against her shoulder as he cleared the doorway.

The brief, high friction contact of their skin sent a literal shockwave of heat between them.

Jessie stiffened, her fingers curling tightly into her palms as she felt the burning temperature of his skin.

She turned her head quickly, watching him walk out into the dim hallway, her eyes glued to the powerful, flexing muscles of his back and the tight curve of his glutes beneath his gym shorts.

Returning to her room an hour later, Jessie found it completely impossible to sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, the sterile white light of the gym flooded her mind, illuminating Mike’s towering, muscular physique.

She couldn't stop thinking about how built he was, how the veins had throbbed in his arms, and how intensely his chest had heaved as he breathed.

The memory of his raw, aggressive voice telling her off was making her clit throb beneath her silk underwear.