He held her as he finished, running his hands languidly over her torso. She never talked after they were done. Sometimes he liked it like that. It allowed him to imagine what she might say, what she would be thinking.
He flattered himself that she'd be thinking of him, running their exploits naughtily through a satiated mind, or basking in a glow of affection for him. Yes, it was the affection he wanted most. Sometimes he thought he saw it in her eyes, but then he chastised himself, knowing that was foolish.
So instead, he imagined. He made up all sorts of scenarios in his mind and played them through, bringing a smile to his face. "I love you," she'd say. "I love you more than I've ever loved anyone." And she would. In his fantasy, they'd be more than physical lovers, but actual ones. She'd look at him and smile, and that smile would light up his heart with a warm glow. They'd spend time together (outside of bed), and he could dote on her like he'd always wanted to do for a woman. He'd be confident and happy, and all the rough edges that he had built up as a defense against pain would be softened away.
He kissed her tenderly, wishing that the feeling he got in return was mutual, and not just the stiff, cold reception he always got. His heart gave a bitter, lonely sob, and he had to push back his tears.
With a sigh, Rimmer reached for the plug.
"Come on, Ingrid. Time to put you back in your box."