It's an old apartment. His hip digging in between her legs coupled with the way she's bearing down on the edge of that counter while she works to do away with his trousers means there's a good amount of protest on the furniture's part. There's no buckling or bending or the barest sign of a crack (bless whatever material future countertops are made from), but the occasional creaking's more noticeable than the hardness of his cock under her palm, though the latter is where her attention's focused-- that and the scrape and pinch of his teeth on her skin-- unashamedly rough handling where he's all tangled up in fabric. Where she's too bloody impatient to be careful or courteous about it.

Still, shifting back an inch or so seems to relieve the problem. On both fronts. Her fingers pull him loose with less than a second wasted between that and setting to work getting him off, and there's less groaning for it with the balance of weight more evenly distributed.

Or possibly more groaning elsewhere, provided she hasn't lost her touch when it comes to rolling her fingertips forcibly over the contours of his cock.