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For some reason this phenomenon is one of those things that Will was fully conscious of, going into this venture, and simply neglected to reason out that it might apply to herself.
Her blush extends all the way down her neck, and she's surprised Hannibal doesn't remark on it; with her nod of permission he slips a hand in to undo the buttons and peels her dampened blouse away from the undershirt beneath it, leaving it to fall undone over the swell of her belly. The undershirt itself is soaked beyond saving by now, to Will's thorough embarrassment; though the initial stimulus (an ill-timed cry) is gone and she's been whisked away behind closed doors, Hannibal's pristine blue suit jacket wrapped around her (for once in her life she's glad she has a reputation for taking shock poorly) her breasts are still unbearably heavy, taut and aching.
"I'm fine," she says, drawing up her legs and blotting at herself to little avail with a handful of Kleenex, "I'm fine, the only thing you have to worry about is me ruining this couch--"
"It's to be expected, at this stage; I'm sure our Jack would prefer you to rest when necessary, rather than continue exerting yourself. That particular reflex reaction is not uncommon for new mothers, in response to the crying of infants. Or animals, as the case might be."
"I'll be fine in five minutes," Will says, a little anxiety-stricken, crossing her arms in front of herself. They've seen one another in worse states, but this is the first time this particular contingency has sprung itself on her, and she has a creeping sense of being somehow grotesque. She is painfully self-conscious of how swollen every inch of her feels. "I hadn't expected, ah, such a physical reaction to this case, but the more you know..."
Hannibal studies her, as he always seems to do, keen and concealing. Something like curiosity passes across his face. "May I? You might find it helpful."
"May you what?"
His suggestion doesn't need even to be spoken; the devilish quirk of his lips tells much too much.
She's not accustomed yet to his deft touch, even after a while; to his credit he's the only one who doesn't treat her like she's made of spun glass, and he's never shown the slightest hint of discomfort with her pregnant body, but he's the only one to have touched her like this for some time. His hands are slightly cool and when he handles her breasts, lifting each one carefully free from her poorly-chosen bra, it's especially striking. Her skin is so sensitive that the mere pressure from his fingers makes Will worried she might spring another leak; the peak of one too-full breast is sporting a bead of milk already, cream against the chafed brown of her nipple.
He makes eye contact with her briefly, his peculiar reddish eyes on hers, before he leans down -- again seeking permission, but the genteel ease he has with handling her body, with manipulating its quirks and oddities to his own ends, wipes away all doubt. Hannibal is in shirtsleeves, not a hair out of place, and Will is undeniably exposed all disarrayed and rumpled, short curls disheveled. Cold and damp and exhausted. Something about it, about the contrast, makes the downy hairs on her arms rise, something tightens somewhere inside her.
(As Katz has been entirely tactless about pointing out, he does have a sort of vampiric aspect to him. Surrendering herself without words ought to make her fearful, but right now Will is not feeling her most rational, and she needs this much too badly.)
He lowers his mouth to her right breast -- her exquisitely sensitive, painfully full right breast -- and parts his lips to suck.
The sensation comes back again immediately, a sudden freeing of strain and explosive wetness; but his mouth is fixed on her nipple, his cheek against her sloping breast, and there's no leakage this time, just his proud lips and damp tongue working at her lightly. He cups her closely with both hands, like a cherished object, and she finds herself breathless.
Will makes a soft needy sound without meaning to, and he shifts against her; it's possible to recognize his wicked amusement even without words. His equally wicked mouth pulls at her harder, making the smallest of sounds, his teeth a present insistence as he swallows -- she can hardly believe she's in a state where there's enough there to drink, but he seems to be enjoying her. She ought to say something, about that being enough, but she doesn't want him to.
When he shifts his attention to her other breast, it's already sprung another abundant leak, trickling off-white; his tongue traces another wet line along the warm track of milk, from the upper ledge of her belly up to her nipple, and sets to work again with a taunting press of painful teeth against her oversensitive flesh. Her hand rises to rub at her now drained breast, feeling at herself without prurient intent but astonished at how hard her nipples have remained. Her own skin is astonishingly soft, and Hannibal's mouth, his intent breath, has left it even warmer.
He's very businesslike about drinking her dry, but her body's ache has transferred elsewhere; her skin still feels frightfully tight, too round, and though the strain in her breasts has been remedied she's to her own surprise aroused. Her legs are parted to accommodate Hannibal between them, and when he begins to pull away she is seized with the desire for him to keep touching her, to put his hand between her legs or wherever he might see fit, but he's already smoothing back his ashy hair, eyes darkly amused, and blotting at his mouth with an immaculate handkerchief.
"How are you feeling? Have I managed to afford my dear Will a modicum of relief?"
"Yes," she gasps, voice a little broken, "yes, thank you." She can only lie back and tremble here, relieved and overcome.