Finding You, Looking for Me: A Henry Cavill FanFic

Part 15: Us at Home Together

We stayed home that day. I ordered groceries for delivery, and I made love to my husband for hours. At some point he had his head on my chest, his naked self between my thighs, and I stroked his hair until he fell asleep, him clutching my body.

"I'd do anything for you," I whispered to a sleeping Henry. I glanced down at his face—lips pursed, eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, hair disheveled. I meant it. I couldn't imagine a world in which I wasn't with him. I wanted nothing other than to take care of him—and our family.

I leaned over and kissed him. And kissed him again. And again.

He began to stir from my affection. He dug his hands harder into me, and turned his head, kissing my breast in the process. I smiled at the kiss, even in his sleep he demonstrated his love to me.

And I knew how lucky I was right then. I remembered when we first came to London together five years ago, our adjustment into "real life" was a difficult one. We were no longer alone in a hotel suite. We were fusing our lives together, including joining Henry with my children. We were hounded by the paparazzi incessantly, with both of my children often being targeted by tabloids. Henry's fans were very harsh towards me, expressing that I was not nearly good enough for him. I often agreed with that sentiment, but kept that to myself. Despite my psychological training and my steady workout regimen, I developed an eating disorder for a time once I read comments about my weight. Henry and I rarely spent time apart, and when he or I needed to travel for work, we did our best to rework our schedules so we could accompany one another. On the occasions which we couldn't coordinate our schedules, I would miss him terribly and we would phone and text often.

I slipped into his family life effortlessly. His friends immediately accepted me, and my friends accepted him—both groups often getting together for every event that I deemed a celebration. I wanted to have parties and spend time with family and make a home for him. But once in a while, I still wanted to go out to bars—just to hear the noise again. Henry was always quick to take me out around town. Photographers would make me nervous, but after a few drinks, I'd loosen up—often kissing him in public, or making friends with random bar patrons, or singing along to the juke box. There were more than a few pictures of me posted online in unflattering states of inebriation. One particular photo was of Henry carrying me out of a bar, my legs wrapped around his waist, my arms around his neck, and both of his hands on my bottom. We were both smiling and laughing and kissing, but the coverage was anything but happy. My fitness as a mother came into question. I was heartbroken over the accusations of alcoholism and possible drug use. Bartenders whom I had worked with in Chicago twenty years ago had been interviewed by trashy gossip sites to get quotes about my past cocaine use. Henry reassured me that he was not bothered by any of this—he was with me, he knew me—and his support was always unwavering. Being with him was not an easy task, and those first six months or so were the toughest part of my time with him.

We experienced seismic shifts in our relationship shortly after my forty-first birthday. We were staying in Hawaii, on Oahu at the famed Plantation Estate. Both Emily and Max were with us, along with Henry's younger brother Charlie and his family. Henry had a couple weeks off before he returned to his press tour.

He and I had just crawled into bed after an evening of eating and drinking and laughing with the family.

"Does it bother you that I like to party with the boys sometimes?" I asked him, as I pulled my top over my head, revealing the tan lines on my leaner frame.  He immediately nuzzled my exposed breasts, tugging at one with his teeth while I broke into laughter.

"No. I think it's fun," he answered, drunkenly pawing at my breasts and pulling my shorts down.

"I feel like you may be conflicted sometimes. I know you're very...traditional," I began, allowing him to hastily remove my clothing while he swept his mouth across my body. "Even smoking cigars?"

"It's sexy, really," he mumbled, his tongue making its way to my navel. His large hands covered my stomach and he slowed his pace and kissed my belly gently. "But soon we'll have babies," he slurred.

"Oh?" I asked him, laughing. "How do you know we'll have babies soon?"

"Because I'm going to make some right now," he told me matter of factly. I giggled, and he moved his mouth down to my warmth, kissing it deeply, my heart skipping a beat. "I reckon I could make a few babies tonight," he reassured me, kissing my warmth again. I laughed at his adorable comment before getting swept up by his hands all over me.

I should have known right then. We giggled and played and made love that night—and I didn't take him seriously at all.  That was the night that Henry got me pregnant. At forty-one, I was going to be a mother again. I was going to bare the child of the most beautiful man on earth.

Rightfully, I was terrified. I was not married to him, and I had two nearly grown children. Was I prepared to start all over again?