Here's a classic in which the great Vladimir Nabokov develops its virtuosity. The theme of the destructive passion of a mature man for a minor is conducted in a thrilling way. This passion goes crescendo, holding the reader in suspense, carrying the characters (the narrator and Lolita) in the run up to a hellish disaster, inevitable and programmed: fate, tragic, was written. It is a very great novel which, it seemed today would certainly scandal and might be boycotted because of its particularly sour about it, but it is a true work of art. Point moral here; for those who are wondering what is the culprit of our old pedophile (though I be almost tempted him to write), or this diabolical Lolita, the answer is complex. And I also do not think the question is relevant here.
As you read this book in one gulp, I felt the same irresistible acceleration with the chess player by Stefan Zweig. I advise to read more in English if possible that novel Nabokov wrote directly in that language (some of his works were in fact written in French, others in English; it is best to refer to the spontaneity of version original).