There was something a little bit disconcerting about falling for your own scheme, Kyouya realized.

From the very first, Kyouya had foreseen the enormous capital-generating potential of Tamaki's idea of a high school host club. It had been simple enough to instigate as Kyouya recalled, pressing his hot forehead and flushed cheeks against the cool brick wall of the Ouran Academy. The school was always open to new ideas and — more importantly — to the richest students in the country.

The object of the Host Club was, after all, a way to make money. When there was a profit to be made, Kyouya made it. He wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty to do it, either. Biting down hard on his knuckles to stifle a groan as strong hands on his waist caressed the soft skin of his stomach, Kyouya knew that he was lucky to have members in the Host Club that felt the same. Not everyone, especially those that attended Ouran, was as willing to work for money.

The female student population at Ouran was privileged, of course. They were intelligent, came from rich families with high standings, and — best of all — subject to the torrent of hormonal urges that came with the onset of puberty. It was a crime not to capitalize on this, really.

Judging from the way he arched his back in pleasure or the way his hips jerked suddenly in response to long, calloused fingers touching him right there, perhaps hormones had a lot more power over a person than Kyouya had originally thought. If he, the Cool Type, let his emotions get the better of him, who could imagine what those weaker than he would do? It was an underestimation we wouldn't make in the future. He foresaw that with a little more advertising and a little more skin, he could increase the club's profits by 37 percent.

A high-risk maneuver, to be sure, Kyouya cautioned himself as he pushed back against the large, solid body behind him, his hands grasping the brick wall for more purchase. But the greatest risks came with the greatest rewards, naturally. Like the Host Club itself.

Kyouya, breathing in sharply as he felt warm lips brush the nape of his neck and shuddering in anticipation as a low voice murmured his name against his skin, had never accounted for falling into his own trap. Not to say that it was a scam, exactly — just a way to ensure that the girls of Ouran Academy had the company of the richest, most respectable, young men in the country. High society thrived on the relationships that were cultivated over tea and other outings, and parents encouraged their daughters to practice their social skills as much as possible. If girls could develop their powers of refinement while being romanced by her choice of handsome young men at the same time, so much the better. The Host Club was a service provided to those young ladies that wanted it — and could pay for it, of course. A surefire way to make a dollar, as long as the relationships between the hosts and the clients didn't go too far.

Like Kyouya had gone.

Still, he mused as Mori continued to move steadily inside him, he would never allow the club to descend into anything remotely like prostitution. That kind of business, Kyouya felt, would certainly sully the Ohtori name as well as those of the other Host Club members and any clientele involved. The club would surely be shut down and millions would be lost if they were found to be engaging in such activities. It wouldn't do at all to be caught like this, especially on school property.

Which was why Kyouya was doing his best to not cry out each time Mori pushed in a little deeper, a little harder. Kyouya noticed that Mori never made much noise, for which he was grateful. Besides, he vastly preferred the way he could feel Mori softly grunt when he was inside him, the way the sound reverberated through his chest until it became almost a rumble. But Kyouya knew that no matter how talented Mori was at it and how much money they could make, prostitution was simply out of the question.

Even so, it couldn't hurt to continuing doing a bit of firsthand research on the matter. For future reference, of course.