I just realised that I haven't given you guys a REVIVED teaser yet! Of course that needs rectifying, and as the weekend is almost upon us, what better time than to meet Leandro and India for the first time than now.
This snippet is from Leandro's POV. The book will be in both POV's, and it's a lot of fun to write! ;)

If you're under the age of eighteen, look away now. The rest of you, read on...

Add Revived to Goodreads: http://tinyurl.com/ns3vd84

Revived (Revved #2)
Leandro

My eyes move to the magazines on the table. There’s a sports mag peeking out from under the fashion mags.
Leaning forward, I pull it out, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
Top 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 F1. 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.
Well, 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 vice.
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’ll ever need.
Liar.
I am a liar, and a chicken shit. And that’s why I’m sitting in the waiting room of a therapist.
Maybe I’m beyond help.
Tossing the magazine back on 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 toned, tanned 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 look 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 giving her my best smile, the one that always has panties dropping to the floor, I say, “And you can call me Leandro.”