Happy Release Day to Samantha Towle and her new book REVIVED! This is Leandro's story! Read a sneak peek below and make sure to enter the giveaway! Good luck!
My eyes move to the magazines on the table. A sports mag is peeking out from under the fashion mags. Leaning forward, I pull it out, instantly wishing I hadn’t. On the cover of the magazine is a picture of me with the caption, What the Bad Side of Formula 1 Looks Like. Nice. So, now, I’m the bad side of Formula 1. Good to know. I already know what the media say about me. How I’ve turned from a great racer into a drunk and a whore. They’re not wrong on the whore part. Well, whore is a bit harsh. I don’t charge for my services. And I wouldn’t say I’m a drunk. I just like to drink—a lot. I shouldn’t read the article. I know this, but the sadistic part of me has me turning those pages. Finding the article, eyes scanning the text, I pick out the usual shit. Why is Silva no longer racing? Physically, he’s healthy. Is it mental problems? Fear over racing because of his accident? Is that why he drinks—drowning his misery in alcohol? Such a shame to see a once great driver fall from grace so dramatically. Frustration and rage grip my chest like a vise. Fuck this. I don’t need this shit. Even though I can’t race, it’s not like I actually need to. I don’t need to race. I just need to drink and fuck. That’s all I need now. All I will ever need. Liar. I’m a liar and a chickenshit. And that’s why I’m sitting in the waiting room to see a therapist. Maybe I am beyond help. Tossing the magazine back onto the table, I get to my feet, ready to leave this place, just as the door opens, revealing the epitome of what I could really do with screwing right now. My eyes trail up the tanned, toned legs to the fitted pencil skirt that I would happily hitch up to see the magnificent pussy that I bet lies beneath. A pale-pink blouse is tucked into that skirt, covering what looks like a fantastically sized pair of tits. Silky blonde hair sits on her shoulders. Hair that I would enjoy getting my hands all tangled in while I fuck those bright red lips of hers, enjoying seeing that lipstick smeared all over my cock. My dick pulses in my jeans, more than ready to proposition her with the offer. “Mr. Silva.” She steps forward. “I’m Dr. Harris. But please call me India.” She’s Dr. Harris? This hitch-your-skirt-up-and-let-me-fuck-you-right-now woman is my new therapist. Well, that’s just fucking great. It’s not like I can bang my therapist. I put my cock on hold and give her my best smile, the one that always has panties dropping to the floor, as I say, “And you can call me Leandro
New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal and international bestselling author Samantha Towle began her first novel in 2008 while on maternity leave. She completed the manuscript five months later and hasn't stopped writing since.
She has written contemporary romances, THE MIGHTY STORM, WETHERING THE STORM, TAMING THE STORM and TROUBLE.
She has also written paranormal romances, THE BRINGER and the ALEXANDRA JONES SERIES, all penned to tunes of The Killers, Kings of Leon, Adele, The Doors, Oasis, Fleetwood Mac,and more of her favourite musicians. A native of Hull and a graduate of Salford University, she lives with her husband, Craig, in East Yorkshire with their son and daughter.