Spike does like to eat regular food; blood's all well and good, but life would be terrible without a good scone. He just hadn't had the opportunity in the last day or so. Blood, yes. Food... did whiskey count?

His tongue wound around Matt's, drawing it into his mouth to tangle with as he pressed his hips more firmly to Matt's. He could feel the heat and warmth and that solidness of the living erection against his pelvis, letting out a soft, pleased groan that was muffled in Matt's mouth. He drew back enough to let the other man breathe (he'd been with enough humans to know he needed to remember that was a necessity), then nudged his head at the sliding door to the bedroom. "Let's relocate. I feel like seeing what you look like all sprawled out with that little patchwork quilt design you've got going on."