In the quaint village of Thistledown, where cobblestone streets shimmered with morning dew and the bakery’s cinnamon rolls could make a nun reconsider her vows, lived Penelope Pumpernickel: librarian, cardigan enthusiast, and closet sensualist.

By day, Penelope managed the stacks at the Thistledown Public Library, wielding the Dewey Decimal System with the confidence of a swordswoman. But beneath her tidy exterior was a mounting restlessness. She’d read every erotic novel shelved under 813.6, bookmarked every “notable passage” in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and once spent a weekend alphabetizing the Kama Sutra’s positions by Sanskrit root.

Still, nothing made her feel.

Sometimes she’d linger outside the tavern at night, listening to laughter, watching the flicker of candlelight behind lovers’ windows. She’d sip her wine alone and think, There has to be more than bookplates and bookmarks.

Then came the rumors.

Three brothers, living in the manor at the edge of town. Each with ... gifts. Physical ones. Wild speculation. Village women whispered into teacups. Mrs. Higginbotham, the head of the knitting circle (and unofficial morality czar), clutched her pearls so tightly she nearly swallowed them.

Penelope, naturally, took notes.

And then she packed a notebook, a bottle of mulled wine, and set off for the manor under a harvest moon.

The eldest brother, Bjorn, answered the door shirtless, sweat gleaming across his chest with the swagger of a man who knew exactly what he was offering. His beard bristled thick and unruly, the kind that suggested it had won more than one fight. He blinked once, twice, then smiled.

“I’m conducting research,” Penelope explained, brandishing her notebook like a holy relic. “On ... human dynamics.”

Bjorn grinned. “Then step inside, lass. You’ve come to the right house.”

His chamber was draped in furs and scented with pine and raw testosterone. He stripped off his linen pants with the finesse of a stage magician, revealing a member of such mythic proportions it could’ve had its own postal code.

“Oh my,” Penelope whispered. “That’s ... substantial.”

“Too much for ye?” he purred, chest puffed.

It was. His lovemaking was a siege—relentless, booming, and unapologetically athletic. Her body became a battlefield, and by the halfway mark, she was mentally reorganizing the library’s nonfiction wing just to survive.

When it finally ended, and she lay gasping on the furs, Bjorn handed her a tankard of mead and tossed her a proud wink.

Penelope politely declined and jotted:

Bjorn — Too big. Like trying to read War and Peace in one breath while being shaken by a Norse god.

Outside, she muttered to herself, “Well. Chapter one ... complete.” A barn owl hooted in sympathy.

The next night, she returned, curious—and sore.

This time, Brutus answered. Wiry, tattooed, with a rogue’s grin and tousled hair that screamed I skip foreplay and taxes. He leaned against the frame, all attitude and ownership.

“You again?” he smirked.

“Comparative study,” she replied.

Brutus’s room was lit by a flickering lantern, which may or may not have been on fire. His bed looked like a retired torture device. He undressed with the flair of a conjurer, revealing a penis that was ... well, charming. Modest. A guest star in an otherwise chaotic episode.