Jack answers the delightful press of her body with a low hum in his throat, becoming acutely aware of the hot pulse of blood that's starting to rush downward with each small roll of her hips against his. His hands skim to the hem of her shirt, tugging, quickly dragging the fabric up and away, then his fingers move to score over the soft flesh of her back. Another Arena, another death, and he's needed this; to relieve that aching tension, that hazy, burning desire for closeness, that need to have her again.