There's a thin tendril of disgust curling through her at the mechanical way he responds, although whether it's at him or her, she has no idea. Is she any better than them, using him like this?

Honestly, she's not going to examine that one too closely. He whispers okay and she doesn't have to (or is at least going to use it as an excuse not to).

She gives as good as she gets, dragging him closer. He's too good at this, but Johanna really doesn't care about that right now, tugging his lower lip between her teeth, fisting one hand in his hair. Something like heat washes through her, but it's a dim, muted thing, overwhelmed by thoughts of the arena, the screams of the dying, the boom of the canon. She curses against his mouth, pushing closer again like the more of him she gets, the less room there'll be for her past.