Finding You, Looking for Me: A Henry Cavill FanFic

Part 39: Vanity Fair Coverboy

The newest issue of Vanity Fair was sitting on our coffee table. I peered at it from my seat on the sofa, pretending to not notice its presence. The cover was shiny, and fresh—with a stunning actor on the cover, donning unbuttoned and untucked blue shirtsleeves and an impressive square jaw

I looked at my iPhone screen, trying not to get caught looking at the magazine. Henry was walking around the house with his AirPods in, talking to his management team about the article contained in the magazine. He was beaming, as he strolled around the house.

"Thanks, Dany," he said, smiling widely while adjusting books on a shelf. This was a nervous habit Henry had while he was on the phone. "I'll talk to you soon."

Henry turned to me on the sofa. "Well?" he said.

I looked up from my phone, trying to look bored. "Well, what?" I asked him.

His mouth became a thin line, and he narrowed his eyes at me. "Sarah," he said, sounding stern.

I laughed. "No, I haven't read it yet, baby!" I reached for him and gestured for him to sit beside me. He hesitated and sat next to me. I crawled halfway into his lap and threw my arms around his neck. "Forgive me," I said, kissing his face.

"You've had all day," he complained.

"Yes, but I want to read it when I'm alone," I told him, adding, "I don't want to ruin it for myself." He snorted at my comment, and I immediately protested. "Really, Henry...it's my process."

He pouted. I smiled at him—he was behaving like a child and it was adorable. I covered his pout with my lips. "It's all right," he muttered at me through the kiss.

"Will I ever get tired of kissing you?" I wondered aloud.

"I hope not," Henry said, raising an eyebrow and giving me a nasty look. I laughed at him again. "You're my wife—we're only kissing one another—so you'd better enjoy it," he said, the pout returning.

I laughed again. "I'd like to go read this article, baby," I told him, giving him another kiss. I untangled myself from him and climbed to my feet.

I grabbed the magazine. The photo on the cover was stunning—every dip and sinew in his arms were visible through the light blue material of his shirt. His chest was exposed, his stomach tucked away beneath the shirt.

But his face was the show.

His full lips were parted and a hint of his tongue was visible. The blue in his eyes looked unreal—though I looked into those same unreal eyes daily, I was still shocked by them. The angles of his face, the tilt of his head, and the cleft in his chin—every bit of his face was the embodiment of masculinity.

I sucked in a breath, "Wow, this guy is something," I said, ogling the cover art.

Henry softened. "You've seen these photos before," he reminded me, a shy smile creeping over his lips. The photo had him posed in a rumpled bed—no doubt to destroy the panties of women everywhere—one arm tucked behind his head. His other hand was pulling his shirt open, allowing the view of his chest. His curls were disheveled—the way they are after I've been tugging at them during sex.

I nodded, not taking my eyes off the photo. "I'm going to go read this, then I'm going to fuck you," I told him, before turning on my heel to head into our bedroom. I heard him chuckle as I walked away.

I climbed into our bed and pulled the covers over me. I got comfortable and began flipping the pages of the magazine. The photos were spectacular. Henry in a suit staring off into the distance, Henry in a t-shirt and jeans laughing, Henry peering in from a window, Henry being Henry...