The Count's breathing was labored now — the , 'pushing-through-it' rhythm of a man who is operating past his limit and knows it and has decided the objective outweighs the cost.
His hands shaking slightly on her hips.
His thrusts losing their rhythm — becoming harder to compensate, the , 'everything-into-less-precise' power of a body drawing on reserves.
He came.
The single, gasping, 'final' exhale of a man who has nothing left — his body going rigid, his hands locking on her hips, the deep internal flood of it —
He pulled out.
His legs gave.
Not completely. Enough — the , partial, 'managed' stumble of a man catching himself on the bedpost with one hand, the other clone vanishing simultaneously, the ability's last extension dissolving as the stamina supporting it collapsed.
He stood there.
Breathing.
