Or Skinny Dipping- HARRY STYLES #DirtyImagine

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“Here,” Harry’s voice reluctantly echoed through my mind; no-longer sober. I stumbled backward as he thrust the champagne bottle into my hands, almost falling before he stopped me from hitting one of the priceless decorations that were lining that walls of the huge house.

“So this is like… you’re legit place?” I asked, my voice drowning in alcohol.

“Yeah,” he laughed.

“Seems… expensive.”

“Well… yeah, it is.”

I shoved the bottle up to my mouth and took another drink of it, the stars sliding, bubbling, tingling their way down my throat. “You’re gonna be really hungover if you keep that up.”

“So will you,” I giggled.

“I already will be,” he rolled his eyes jokingly. Neither of us said anything for a few seconds, but he quickly spoke up again, “Follow me.”

He grabbed a hold of my hand and led me down a long hallway and into a room that was obviously the kitchen. My brows furrowed wondering why we were there. “Just come on,” he chuckled slightly, and kept on walking.

There was a door on the other side of the room which led outside. “Whoa,” I commented, “that’s… fancy.”

“Never seen a pool before?” he joked.

“Not like this; I mean not like this at someone’s house. But, I mean you’re all rich and whatnot so, I guess it’s reasonable.”

“I’m not rich.”

“Harry, if you’re not rich I’d kill to be ‘not rich,’” I replied, “you’re rich, my friend… So, why are we out here?”

“Why do you think we’re out here? I didn’t bring you out here just to look at it.”

“W’ll, I don’t have anything to swim in…”

“D’you wear bikinis?”

“Uh. Yes… why?”

“Bra’s are practically the same thing—”

“Harry!” I cackled. “No!”

“Or, there’s always skinny dipping,” he joked (all-too seriously).

“Umm, bra and underwear is good, too.”

A bright smile appeared on his face as he said, “Fine. I’ll be back in a second.”

I was then alone, in the darkness that was only illuminated by the light from the house and the stars. Reluctantly, questioning whether I should or not, I peeled off my skinny jeans and Washington, D.C. hoodie, tossing them onto one of the lounge chairs. I pulled my hair up in a very sad and pathetic looking pony tail, then grabbed my buzzing phone from the pocket of my jeans, placing the almost-empty bottle of champagne on the concrete.

While messing with my spastic iMessage, Harry reappeared in a pair of black Nike shorts.

“Wow…” Since I never heard him come back out, the sudden sound of his voice startled me. “Sorry,” he chuckled.

“Wow, what?”

“Wow as in… I mean… you… you’re…. umm, never mind.”

Something about knowing exactly what he was trying to say made him all the more attractive—and I’m not sure why. “Okay… well… umm. Who’s in first?” I asked stupidly.

“Good question,” he laughed. He held out a hand to help me up from the chair I was sitting on, and like the genius I was, accepted it. I mean, yeah, he helped me up, but then he pulled me forward and pushed me in. “You.”

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