a/n: This is very, very different than every other story I've written. Please notice the rating. This is my very first M-rated story. You have been warned. I also have no idea where this is going. Not sure fit's a oneshot or multi-chapter. Either way, I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.

A Little Too Much

Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go it's one of the best.

– Woody Allen

Michael is one freaky-looking motherfucker.

He is just a little too much of everything.

He has very curly hair like his father, but the dark hair color from his mother. His hair is just a little too curly and a little too long. He is in desperate need of a haircut; his hair hangs into his eyes just far enough that he constantly feels the need to push it back with his hands. His eyes are a contrast to his dark curly mop hair. The shape of almonds in a startling bright blue. Too blue, in my opinion. They are hidden partially behind thick-rimmed glasses that are just a little too wide for his face. His glasses sit on a nose that slopes just a little too much at the end. Below that is a pair of pouty lips that are just a little too full for a man.

He is the manifestation of too much of everything, and yet, he is very tall.

Almost too tall.

My first confession: tall men turn me on.

It's like standing in downtown New York City on a clear day at lunchtime only to look up and see the skyscrapers going up and up and up. It's intimidating and scary and fucking beautiful. Well, you see, tall men do that to me as well. I look up, and I get turned on and on and on...

So you'd think I'd be turned on by Michael.

And I am.

We both ended up tall, but he towers over my five foot eight and a half frame. He is one tall motherfucker—like six foot four. And that is nothing to scoff at. But height isn't everything, and there is another factor to consider.

He has a defined jawline. And, sure, my dad does too, but Michael's is very, very defined. And his chin is a little too large. His whole jaw is just defined in the way that it makes his face look like the plane of a shovel.

It's fucking ugly.

My second confession: super defined jaws scare me. I mentioned the shovel metaphor. A defined jaw makes a man look permanently hungry. Knife-sharp jawlines scream out: dirty, sadistic, cunt-munching serial killer at your service—the kind of S&M psycho who could chow out your girlie parts and then chop you into pieces and burry you in your African violet planter when no one is looking.

That shit is scary.

So let's get a few things straight.

Michael is freaky-looking. Michael is a little too much of everything. Michael is tall. Michael has a very defined jaw. Michael is fucking scary.

But the man is a master of the orgasm.

He fucks so well.

Too well.

But fucking Michael is awesome.

Because you cannot have "a little too much" of sex.

So I don't just fuck him.

I fuh-uh-uh-uh-ck him.

And I keep doing it. Again and again.

And it scares me, but I kinda like that, too.

I go over to Michael's studio apartment after my last class on Monday.

He lives in one of those dumpy, too-small apartments over a Chinese restaurant in the middle of the city just so he can scrape his money together each month and afford a place with a pretty view and a brightly lit corner to paint in.

It's an old building with an elevator that still has an extra brass gate to throw open, so you have to run out quickly because the door will slam on your heel if you're not careful. I'm clumsy and not fast, so this has happened on three separate occasions.

I walk down the painted and repainted art deco hallway, which is bordered at the ends by defunct radiators and barred windows. I knock on the paneled door to his apartment. I politely cross my arms and wait like I'm coming over for tea and crumpets or something equally banal and depressing.

Michael opens the door wearing nothing but his glasses, light grey sweat pants, and a goddamn apron.

Last time it was a beret.

He holds the door open and steps aside with an intent look in his eyes. He silently motions for me to enter.

The smell of freshly applied paint wafts through his apartment, even though all of his windows are open to circulate the air.

I hear the door shut. He walks forward so he is standing in front of me. His arms lie languid at his sides. I notice a few small streaks of paint on his forearms (Michael is a messy artist), and subconsciously wonder which painting he is working on today.

"Tell me about your day," he commands. He clearly isn't interested in talking about his classes today. And there's an air of drama to his words. Michael loves all things dramatic.

I shrug, "Your mom called me."

Michael rolls his too-blue eyes, "Of course she did."

"Just some small talk. Classes, friends, their new case," I drop my book bag on the floor and kick off my shoes next to it, "Wants to know if I'm seeing anyone."

"Of course she does," Michael scoffs.

"Which is pretty much her way of asking if we have started dating yet."

"Of course it is," Michael chuckles, "And what did you say?"

I flick eyes up at him with a smirk, "That I'm not seeing anyone important."

"Hmm," Michael nods as he leads us through the conversation, "And how were your classes today?"

"Well, I had a presentation in my lit class, not very exciting..."

He waits patiently for me to continue.

"And my fucking chem lab partner actually decided to show up today."

He reaches forward just far enough to touch four fingers to the side of my torso, like he would if he were aligning his fingers on guitar strings. His other hand rubs the slightly pinkened flesh on his too-large chin unthinkingly.

Good boy, I think, when I notice he just shaved.

"Hmm, is that so?" His eyes are tracing my collarbone as he speaks, "Ice bitch decided to grace you with her presence for once? I wonder if she knows that you can't pass the class if you never go to the labs."

He pulls his too-long fingers gently forward and then he cups my breast. I close my eyes and grit my teeth at the contact of his fingers over the fabric of my dress.

I regain my composure and scoff, "You think she's hot."

He presses his thumb hard through the dress and my bra and into my nipple. He begins rubbing geometrically perfect circles.

He smirks arrogantly down at me.

"I have a cock."

I give him a level stare in return. I continue on nonchalantly, as if his hands on my body mean nothing.

"But, yeah, my lit presentation was well-received. I'm sure even Dr. Kirby liked it."

He pulls me upwards and bites my neck. Then he slowly raises his head, letting the bottom edge of his teeth catch on my chin, my bottom lip, and the tip of my nose. He has white, perfectly too-straight teeth, which he can thank three years of braces for.

"Dr. Kirby wants to fuck you," he says into my hair.

Michael thinks that I'm in love with my literature professor. I'm not, of course. I'm in love with someone else, but that's neither here nor there, and this is not the time to dwell. I'm not thinking about anything resembling love right now. I'm getting my fuck fix, and then I'm going home to order pizza.

I hold my tongue out, and Michael takes the bait, flattening his tongue against mine before greedily sucking it into his mouth.

I jerk my face away from Michael, who growls, but I smile pleasantly.

"For the record, Dr. Kirby is happily married, and you have no idea what you're talking about," I explain in a mocking, almost babying tone, "My presentation was well-informed and to the point, and I'm sure I got an A."

Michael, meanwhile, shoves his hand up my dress. He starts scratching at my thin pantyhose on my inner thigh.

"Christine, baby, talk to me about the exciting presentation. Tell me all about it, Christine baby."

His scratching rips a small hole in the hose. He pokes a finger through, and begins to rip a line upwards.

I can barely stand straight, but I manage to croak out, "The topic was Gatsby."

The hole in my hose is now wide enough, and he pushes his whole hand through. I gasp as I feel his whole hand kneading the bare flesh of my thigh.

"The Great Gatsby. We read it in high school, remember? So I already knew it," I am having trouble remembering to speak, "The presentation was cake. Green Light metaphor, blah blah blah."

"Say it again, Christine," Michael demands coolly.

I become conscious of the fact that I'm dripping lady fluids like I've got a garden hose between my thighs.

"Say what?" I choke out.

My head is swimming.

I feel the excess starting to run down my thigh, and my body clenches in anticipation.

"Gre-en…Li-ght," he says it rhythmically, matching the rhythm of his hand on my thigh, "S-ay…i-t."

His hand stops when he feels the moisture against his hand, but then he methodically follows the trail upwards and snags his fingers under my lace panties and wiggles his fingers in the pond.

"Fuck, Green fucking Light," I spit out.

A grin splits on his face, "Christine, baby, keep going."

He likes it when I start speaking incoherently.

Meanwhile, his fingers keep on a'going.

I start mumbling on about meaningless crap about Gatsby that doesn't really have anything to do with my presentation today.

"You can r-really tell the mood of a scene from the w-weather."

Michael yanks my panties and pantyhose down and flings them across the living room.

"Sit down," He commands. He's done with the literature chatter, apparently.

I sit my bare bottom down on his off-white, cracked linoleum floor.

He kneels in front of me, pressing both thumbs into the thin fabric bunched at the bottom creases of my breasts, and pushes me back onto the floor.

I can feel grit and dust on the tiles.

"Damnit, Michael, you need to sweep your ratty ass floor."

"But Christine, my little bitch, I was planning on mopping it up later," he retorts.

Fuck me, I just got wetter. I bite my lip.

He assesses my face carefully before reaching and pulling my bottom lip away from my teeth. He shoves his finger into my mouth. I can taste myself on his fingertips, something else, too, spicy.

I wonder if he had nachos for lunch.

I bite his finger.

He gives me a hard look. He shoves the other hand into my hole.

Another "fuck" and my head rolls back, and I involuntarily let his finger go as I open my mouth to gasp.

He holds his finger up to examine it. There is a line of red teeth marks. Apparently, I bite hard.

His fingers pick up the pace and he thrusts them in and out of me.

"Fuck, Michael. Fucking shit. Fuck."

He reaches up to clamp his free hand over my cursing mouth. "You see why I had to wear the apron, Christine baby? You're being so dirty."

I nod and moan through his fingers.

"I'm going to have to clean you up."

He leans down, and he presses the very edge of his tongue to the very edge of my clit, and I moan and shout and curse. He starts dabbing his tongue against my clit to the same rhythm that his fingers are fucking my hole, and I'm grabbing and pulling at my own hair and my chest is heaving with my constant gasping and moaning and cursing.

He stops moving his fingers.

He raises his head and stares at me expectantly, smiling like he's about to tell the punch line of a dumb joke.

"Won't you come for me, Christine?"

I gape at him.

"I would if you'd keep going, you fucker."

I grab his hair and try to pull him back against me, but he easily throws my hands aside and grabs my ass, yanking me towards him, while he pushes his legs out in front of him and pulls me forward.

He buries his face in me.

And then his hands are grasping my ass and pushing me up and lowering me down as his tongue shoots in and out of me.

"God, Michael, thank you," I gasp.

He gives my ass a slap to let me know he's accepted my thanks.

It doesn't take long at this point. Michael is good at what he does, and he can feel the onslaught of female rapture. He slides his tongue up from my hole and takes a long, angry suck on my clit.

I scream.

And I scream.

And I scream.

There's a reason why Michael doesn't talk to his neighbors.

Between the mopy dark hair, the defined jaw, the extreme tallness, and the screaming, he cuts a pretty creepy figure.

He shoves me away from him and stands up. I don't care. I lay dazedly sprawled on his dirty linoleum.

He lifts the bottom part of his apron and wipes me off his face. He grabs both of my feet and starts pulling me across his apartment. His bare feet pad softly on the hard floor.

"Kitchen?" I ask breathlessly, straining my neck to keep my head from bumping on the floor.

"Second reason for the apron."

He stops dragging me when we reach the tiny little closet that he calls his kitchen. He scoops me up and lifts me onto the edge of piss-yellow Formica countertop. He raises his apron and pulls the tie on his sweat pants. They easily fall to the floor.

He's standing in front of me in nothing but an apron. On most men, this would look a bit camp, but Michael somehow pulls it off. He has extremely masculine legs. He's a big guy. Not fat, but muscular and strong. He's not just tall, but thick-built, and I'll take that over chicken stick legs any day. I'm also grateful that he doesn't have a gut, especially since he's a bartender.

I grab a hold of the apron, yank it up, and observe that he's long and ready for me.

He doesn't fuck around, and pushes inside of me.

He rasps a gritty, "Fuck," and I say "Fuhh..." since he's already slamming into me. He's already made me come, so he doesn't pay an ounce of attention to me.

This also turns me on.

I'm going to make the most of it, though. I push up on my arms so that the angle is good, and he's pounding my clit in his haste, and I come again almost immediately. My teeth clench, and my walls clench, and I see his face clench.

He really is ugly.

Michael grunts.

He comes like a bear, grabbing up my arms and throwing bites along my collar bone.

There is a quick moment of tenderness, of emotion, for just a fraction of a second as we pant against each other. I rest my head against his shoulder and he plants a quick kiss on my temple.

I am suddenly filled with the desire to crawl into his bed, curl up against him, and take a nap.

But I chuckle to myself. Because that's against the rules.

Cuddling, kissing, and feelings are all against the rules.

With a final sigh, and pulls out of me.

He grabs a paper towel, wipes himself off, and quickly washes his hands.

He tosses a glance over at me, "Sounds like classes were okay today."

"They were," I hop off the counter on my shaky legs, "Hope yours were too."

He nods, "Be back tomorrow?"

"Sure."

I walk into the living room to pick up my school bag and sling it over my shoulder. I grab my panties and the remnants of my pantyhose off the floor. I toss my panties in my bag. I toss the pantyhose on top of an overstuffed trash bin in the corner.

I slide on my flats and let myself out.

I'm going home. I'm going to order pizza. There's a new novel that's captured my interest. I'm going to read it until sleep takes me. I'm going to sleep, and tonight, I hope, I won't dream about 'what ifs' and 'possibilities'.

I laugh at my own madness.

No one can tame dreams.