Sarasota Sin by Talyn Scott Page A

night, however, he’d left on his shirt and Payton recently found out why. She’d caught sight of his back this morning, when he was hosing down the side lanai. Eight perfect claw marks lined either side of Noah’s spine, and love bites bruised one delectable shoulder. Payton wasn’t as angry as she should have been. After all, he’d earnestly pledged his desire to be her man, forsaking all others while he was with her, and yet he couldn’t keep it in his pants for a few hours after leaving her just to prove, if nothing else, his determination to further their relationship. She should be royally insulted and equally pissed. Instead, she felt sad, oddly deflated that he didn’t find her worthy enough to try and prove he could be faithful. But what was she expecting? This was Noah Wyatt in his truest form: the good, the bad, and the horny.
    “Well, good luck rooting for the firehouse tonight, ladies.” He pecked Libby on the cheek. Libby was brushing Payton’s hair, twirling her long curls around her fingers until they looked like red velvet ribbons. Turning to Payton, he looked at her hard. “There was another delivery for you while you were in the shower.” He kissed her temple, his lips lingering longer than necessary, causing Libby to raise a questioning brow.
    “What delivery?”
    Noah never answered, was gone so quickly Payton’s stomach gave another anxious squeeze. Then she heard the loft door clicking shut. Payton spun around and then gasped in delight when her trumpet skirt whooshed around her knees.
    “You’re going to kill it on the dance floor.” Libby tapped her chin with her fingertips, circling Payton, her long nails tipped in silver. “Do you remember how to waltz?”
    “Yes, how can I forget sitting through all your ballroom lessons, and then you practicing on me.”
    Libby made a face. “At least, they’ve paid off recently, with all these events.” She pulled her to the hallway. “Let’s see what this delivery is all about.”
    Payton couldn’t walk fast, her thighs and knees tight in the dress, and she heard Libby hoot when she reached the great room. “What is it?”
    “Brut champagne, it’s truly from France, not sparkling wine!”
    Thinking she could use a drink before they faced another party with Sarasota’s rich and famous, she suggested, “Pop it and I’ll grab some glasses.”
    “It’s Krug Clos d’Ambonnay nineteen-ninety-five!”
    Growing up in an affluent household, Libby held a wealth of information, had friends in high places. Sometimes her upbringing came in handy, particularly since her father bought three plates for tonight’s Sarasota Burn Recovery Dinner.  Its purpose to raise money for a much-needed, state-of-the-art life flight, a lifesaving helicopter with a hefty multi million-dollar price tag. Though kept from the press, Libby had found out that this evening’s festivities were sponsored by none other than Drake Easton, one of the assholes pressing the Easton’s suit against the firehouse.
    Payton’s mouth watered for the champagne. “So, nineteen-ninety-five isn’t that old.”
    “You wouldn’t dare drink this stuff! Not when we need money to finish the bathroom in apartment C.”
    “We need nineteen-hundred dollars for that bathroom,” Payton said, lifting her hands in a so-what gesture.
    “E-bay!” Libby wagged the bottle. “I wouldn’t let it go for less than twenty-eight hundred bucks. We’ll have money to spare.” She chewed her lip. “Well, that is if you are donating it to our cause.”
    Twenty-eight hundred dollars? “Of course, I would donate it to our cause, if I were keeping it.” She marched to the basket filled with boxes and boxes of confections, colored salts, cheeses, and crackers labeled in French, to search for the card. “Flowers are one thing, extravagant gifts are another.”
    “If this is from Avery Easton,” Libby hooted again, spinning with the bottle in hand, “the cost of this champagne is nothing to