The air smells like rain. Eliot leans against the porch railing, cigarette smoke curling around his face, watching her mend the north fence. She's wearing his old flannel—too big, sleeves falling over her hands—and he feels it like a punch to the gut: his shirt, on his woman. His. He stubs the cigarette out with his boot, jaw tight. Four years, and she still bends over like that, ass in the air, not a care in the world. Like she doesn't know he's hard just watching her. He crosses the yard in three strides. She straightens when she hears him, but it's too late. He slams his hand against the fence beside her head, wood creaking. 'You move slow today,' he growls, chest pressing into her back, erection digging into her spine. His free hand yanks her hair, tilting her head back. 'Distracted? Or just begging me to remind you who owns this pretty little cunt?' She whimpers. He grins, teeth grazing her ear. 'That's what I thought.'