Release Day! Revived by Samantha Towle

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!

India Harris didn’t have the best start in life. Abandoned as a baby, she and her twin brother, Kit, spent their lives in foster care, only having each other to rely on. Then, at a young age, a relationship with the wrong man left India pregnant. Wanting to give her son the life she never had, she put herself through school and graduated with honors.

Now, at the age of thirty, she’s a highly respected therapist.

At the top of his game as a Formula One driver, Leandro Silva had everything—until an accident on the track left him staring death in the face. After enduring twelve months of physical therapy, Leandro is now physically able to race, but his mind is keeping him from the track. Frustrated and angry, Leandro’s days and nights are filled with limitless alcohol and faceless women.

Entering the last year of his contract, he knows he has to race again, or he’ll lose everything he spent his life working for. Forced into therapy to get his life back, Leandro finds himself in the office of Dr. India Harris.

Falling for his uptight therapist is not part of Leandro’s plan.

Having unethical feelings for her patient, the angry Brazilian race car driver, is not part of India’s plan.

But what if the wrong person is the only person who is right?

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.”

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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.

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♥ Books in the Series ♥

Book 1 - Revved

**Revved is on SALE for a limited time for $.99**

Kindle Edition Amazon UK | US

Paper Back Amazon UK | US

iTunes UK | US

Kobo book

B&N

Book 2 - Revived

Kindle Edition Amazon UK | US

Paper Back Amazon UK | US

iTunes UK | US

Kobo book

B&N

Samantha Towle REVIVED Release Week Giveaway

Spotlight! Every Breath You Take by Blair Babylon

FREE!

New Adult Rock Star Romance

from USA Today-Bestselling Author Blair Babylon!

For the first time,

this rock star romance novel

is absolutely FREE

EVERYWHERE!

DOWNLOAD YOUR FREE COPY HERE:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Google Play

iBooks / iTunes

Kobo

What happens when a Rock Star in Disguise meets a Billionaire in hiding?

Georgie doesn’t know who she is dating.

At a high society wedding, Georgie Johnson is introduced to Alexandre de Valentinois, a hereditary duke of nothing who flies around the world on his private planes and describes himself as “one of those despicable, idle rich men.” Yet, when pressed, he sings at the wedding in a gorgeous, clear tenor that tugs at Georgie’s soul, and miraculously, he calms her paralyzing stage fright so she can accompany him on the piano, even though she thought she had left her classical music career behind when she went into hiding.

But Alexandre has a dark side. His name is Xan Valentine, and he’s the rock star front man for Killer Valentine. He’s famous, but his paparazzi-dogged lifestyle might expose Georgie and get her killed.

Alex said, so quietly, “Play something for me.”

Her hands stretched over the keys, and she tried to push them down to play even a major chord, but as soon as a key neared the break point, just when the hammer inside the piano was poised to strike the string, something in her mind shouted Don’t! and she couldn’t press it.

Alex asked gently, “Does Flicka know you’re worse?”

“I don’t see how she would. We’ve been out of touch for a few years.”

“But she knows that you’ve got—” he paused, obviously considering whether to say the terrible words, “a problem with this.”

“She must have forgotten about it,” rather than that Flicka had decided to punish Georgie in a spectacularly cruel way.

Maybe Georgie deserved to try to face her fears, melt into an incoherent puddle on the floor, and have everyone from her childhood and current best friends laugh at her failure.

It would serve her right.

But she would never be able to walk as far as the piano in front of all those people, so Flicka couldn’t have her poetic justice.

“Anyway,” she said, “I can’t do it.”

“I can help you,” Alex said.

“And how could you do that? Hypnotize me? Doesn’t work. Psychoanalysis? There’s nothing there.”

“Of course not, but I don’t want you to play for them.” He leaned across the piano again, and his hair slid from behind his shoulder and hung, reflected in the black gloss of the piano’s lacquer. “I want you to play for me.”

Georgie stared down at her spidery hands hanging over the black and white piano keys. “I can’t.”

He walked around the piano and stood beside her, his slim hip right beside her cheek. A faint, masculine scent wafted from his clothes, a cologne, something soothing like green herbs. She was acutely aware that she could lean about six inches over and unzip his fly with her teeth.

Alex said, in a low, soft voice, “Play the middle C.”

She laid her thumb on the white key right in front of her waist and held it there, but she didn’t push down.

Alex stroked her arm from her elbow to her wrist with the back of his hand, soothing her. “Play it.”

She told her finger to push down, and she let the weight of her arm fall on her finger that was curled above the keys.

Her finger collapsed and wouldn’t press the key.

Alex shook his head, and his long hair swished over his shoulders. He turned his hand over so that his palm was on her wrist, and then he slid his hand over hers, covering her fingers on the keys with his own. Calluses on pads of his fingers were hard on the tops of her fingers.

He stepped behind her, still not moving his fingers over hers. Warmth from his body drifted out of his suit jacket that opened around them, spreading over her bare back, and his cologne filled her nose like she was walking in the fields around Tanglewood.

He leaned over her, stretching his arms on both sides of her, caging her.

His whisper brushed the skin on her neck. “I’m not forcing you to do something you don’t want to. I’m letting you have what you want most, what you crave, but you dare not admit, even to yourself.”

“I’m afraid,” Georgie admitted, her voice breathy from fear at pressing that note and from his body so close to hers.

“Everyone is, in the beginning,” he said. “It can be terrifying to have an experience so desired, so primal, that you lose yourself. You have to trust me to take you through the place that terrifies you, to keep you safe, and to hold you until you emerge on the other side.”

Georgie couldn’t seem to catch her breath or move away from him. “We’re still talking about the piano here?”

Alex chuckled.

“Just the piano,” she said, but she leaned back, almost imperceptibly, maybe an inch, so that his mouth was so near her skin that his breath was a hot circle on her bare shoulder, and the scent of champagne in his mouth rolled down her skin.

“Let me do it for you, first,” he whispered.

Georgie closed her eyes, and the weight of his finger forced hers down.

A single note, a C, rang out of the piano and jarred against her skin.