He looks at her lips stretched around the gag and he tilts his head. He wonders how they would feel against his. It’s a power thing, not a sexual one.
His eyes slide down a bit, follow the swell of her breasts and go back up to her mouth, and OK, maybe it’s a little bit sexual.
It’s not that Paul daydreams about kissing her – for starters. He’s not a daydreamer. He’s the bad guy in the story, ex-agent gone rogue and all that jazz. Bad ex-agents gone rogue don’t daydream about kissing the damsel in distress. He’s not going to fall for that shit and start having second thoughts about what he has to do; that’s Scofield’s phony part.
So Paul doesn’t daydream about kissing Sara – singsong voice optional. (Maybe Lance could have, in a gay-man-switching-team-once-out-of-curiosity gig, but he’s shrugged off Lance’s personality when Sara exposed him back in Chicago.)
It’s that there’s something appealing, albeit foolish, in her stubbornness and her resistance marred with dread. She’s tightly bound to the chair in the motel room, ropes secured around her ankles, wrists and waist. He’d pretend he doesn’t enjoy the sight, but yeah... Despite her situation, during the last couple of hours, he’s wondered a few times about her damsel-in-distress skills. Damsels in distress don’t throw you that I’m gonna rip off your balls and feed them to you kind of look. They don’t use the language that spilled from her pretty mouth once or twice today. Sara Tancredi can have a pretty potty mouth. Whether she’s acquired it by listening to her Daddy’s phone calls with his opponents, in Med School or from the inmates at Fox River... colorful language.
When she agrees to fucking talk, obviously.
Because she doesn’t talk. He’s tried to cajole, threaten, convince and slap her. She’s been equally unresponsive to all of his attempts and methods.
She’s totally unresponsive, now. She fainted. She let herself faint, to be more accurate. He’s seen her eyes roll back in her head, the blood leave her face and her breathing hitch behind the gag. Fear and exhaustion and anger, he guesses. Truth be told, this is when he really slapped her, to try to bring her back to him; up until then, it had been warming pats on her cheeks more than anything else. He’s not proud of this weakness, but a fault confessed is half redressed, right?
Anyway. She didn’t fight the dizziness. She welcomed it and let herself go limp on the chair. Good thing he’d already tied her up or she would have slipped down and knocked her head on the floor.
Hoping it’s not a ploy and she won’t be screaming for help at the top of her lungs in a second, he pulls the gag down her mouth. This time, it’s not a weakness: he doesn’t want her to choke to death before she talks.
Her lips are still full, although parched and blemished from the roll of fabric he’d stuffed between her teeth. A thin thread of saliva trickles from the corner of her mouth and slides down her chin. See? That’s what he was saying: no damsel in distress – drool doesn’t fit in the image. He wipes the saliva with his thumb, and wipes his thumb on her jeans. She doesn’t react.
He tips her chin up and watches her head loll back, long neck exposed and mouth slightly parted. Pearly white teeth grazing the bottom lip, upper lip as relaxed as when he was passing for Lance. She’s been a lot less relaxed with him in the last couple of hours, but that was to be expected.
It’s not that Paul fantasizes about kissing her, it’s that he wonders. He’s curious. In his mind’s eye, and only there, he leans down and presses his mouth to hers, maybe slips or forces his tongue past her teeth. He can only imagine her reaction. He can only imagine that she would whip her head to the side or bite him hard. She’d probably bite him, hard enough to make him bleed. This is why Paul isn’t a daydreamer: reality always ends up biting him in the ass – or in this case, in the face.
Looks like Paul does daydream about kissing Sara, after all.